


Embers in the Ash

by senatorwiggles



Series: Age of Fire [3]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 99,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senatorwiggles/pseuds/senatorwiggles
Summary: This story follows the undead Ernest of Berenike who existed during the first cycle of undeath in his journey through the final cycle of undeath.Wren of Mirrah belongs to userAster_Writes_Here.See Table of Contents for chapters by character.
Relationships: Ashen One/Irina of Carim, Chosen Undead/Hawkwood
Series: Age of Fire [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685806
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Table of Contents

  1. [ Table of Contents](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53128633)
  2. [ Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52513516): Ernest
  3. [ Monument](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53191225): Ernest | Iudex Gundyr
  4. [ Crestfallen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52513564): Ernest | Hawkwood
  5. [ Andre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52517692): Ernest | Andre of Astora
  6. [ Wren](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54591466): Ernest | Wren
  7. [ Providing and Caring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52256860): Ernest | Wren | Irina | Eygon 
  8. [ Long May the Sun Shine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53499271): Ernest | Siegward
  9. [ Road of Sacrifices](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54137197): Ernest | Wren | Anri | Horace
  10. [Sorceries:](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54783145) Ernest | Wren | Irina | Orbeck
  11. [ Horizon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52612414): Ernest | Hawkwood
  12. [ With Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52716589): Wren | Orbeck | Ernest | Irina
  13. [ Old Thorns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52735147): Ernest | Wren | Sir Kirk | Patches
  14. [ The Man in the Well](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53877604): Ernest | Wren | Siegward
  15. [ Farron](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53911876): Ernest | Wren | Hawkwood
  16. [ Legends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53328124): Ernest | Wren
  17. [Gotthard:](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53911963) Ernest | Wren | Gotthard
  18. [The Watchers:](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54746551) The Abyss Watchers | Ernest | Wren | Gotthard
  19. [ Paternal Conflict](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52304962): Ernest | Wren | Eygon
  20. [Griggs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54855100): Ernest | Wren | Orbeck
  21. [ Tokens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52855957): Ernest | Wren | Hawkwood
  22. [ Scavenging](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52966216): Ernest | Greirat | Wren
  23. [ The Gaping Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/52966873): Ernest | Wren
  24. [ Supper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53877631): Ernest | Wren | Siegward
  25. [ Pontiff](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53397724): Ernest | Wren | Anri
  26. [ Brass Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53397754): Ernest | Wren
  27. [ Snow on the Bridge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53431276): Ernest | Wren |Yorshka
  28. [ Giant Blacksmith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53460625): Ernest | Wren
  29. [ Saint of the Deep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53499037): Ernest | Wren | Aldrich
  30. [Watchers' Rest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54440155): Ernest | Wren | [Content Warning: depictions of decay]
  31. [ Profaned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53499085): Ernest | Wren | Melody
  32. [Little Witch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54879784): Ernest | Wren | Melody | Karla
  33. [Yhorm, Lord of Cinder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/55476469): Ernest | Wren | Siegward | Yhorm
  34. [ The Dancer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53876926): Eygon | Ernest | Wren
  35. [ The Garden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53499760): Ernest | Hawkwood
  36. [ The King and his Heir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53732182): Ernest | Hawkwood | Oceiros | [Content warning: infanticide]
  37. [ Untended](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53877703): Ernest | Shrine Handmaiden
  38. [ Gleaming Dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/53877727): Hawkwood | The Nameless King
  39. [ Waking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54232006): Ernest | Hawkwood
  40. [ Waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54548491): Wren | Cornyx | Irina | Ernest | Hawkwood
  41. [ The Secret Passages of Lothric Castle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/54478876): Wren | Gotthard
  42. [ Path of the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/55240060): Ernest
  43. [ Path of the Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/55448920): Ernest | Hawkwood 
  44. [ Path of the Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/55999159): Ernest | Hawkwood | Man-Serpent Nadia (OC) | Nameless King 
  45. [ Affection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/56002816): Ernest | Firekeeper | Irina | Andre | Orbeck | Cornyx | Karla | Ludleth 
  46. [ Reuniting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/56510890): Ernest | Wren | Eygon | Gotthard 
  47. [ Discussion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/56557288): Ernest | Wren 
  48. [ They Came in Pairs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/56751391): Ernest | Wren | Orbeck | Melody | The Twin Princes 
  49. [ Sawgrass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/56751898): Ernest | Hawkwood 
  50. [ Sightless Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/56779711): Ernest | Wren | Firekeeper | Andre | Cornyx | Ludleth | Irina | Hawkwood 
  51. [ To Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893554/chapters/56801719): Ernest | Wren | Soul of Cinder | Firekeeper 



  
  
[Ernest of Berenike by Kolsm.art @ Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/B9U0nIgjQIA/?igshid=1xirtzwxi06tv)


	2. Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Edition

The flames licked him, consumed him, devoured him. He could no longer feel Solaire in his arms. He could no longer feel his wounds, the blood, the burns, the-- Cold.

The dark. The stone? Ernest writhed in the stone coffin, the blackness of it giving his mind a canvas to paint his horror, his death, upon. The old steel of his gauntlet slammed against the top of the coffin to no avail, but a moment later with the remnants of his talisman, he blew the lid clear off. 

He screamed in the light, his body aching and burning with what felt like fever. He shuddered and cried, knocking his way out of the stone and rolling to his side.

_ Oscar-- Solaire--  _

He struggled to stand and leaned against the coffin. The world around him was unlike any place he’d ever been. Cold and grey and wet. Water pooled in the gravel before him. Plants, weak from the cold and low light, broke through the stone and cracked the fragile earth. A soft but biting wind moved through his armor as if it were jute. Hollows sat in the mire and cried, their sobs echoing through the otherwise silent world. One had been crushed by the lid of his tomb, their blood mingling with the water, and near it… Near it was his shield, likely placed with him. But… who had buried him? Had he not been burning for all these years?

Ernest lifted his shield from the water. Near it his sword had fallen, the blade chipping against the stone lid to his tomb. He lifted it, pulled it from the muck, and inspected the once proud dark steel. Rust claimed the metal. The cutting edge had dwindled to nothing but a glorified echo of its once self. It could not even catch the leather of his ruined glove as he ran his thumb over the sorry blade. But it was still his blade. It was still the great sword of a Berenike knight, and he would not dispose of it so readily. He hefted it and let it sit on his shoulder. A sense of normalcy began to fall upon him. With the weight on his shoulder, he could move on. The leather strap of his shield, he found, had broken, but the riveted handle still held true. 

Then, perhaps, began the hallucinations. A great bowl in the middle of the water set upon a pedestal. A broken bowl with the very image of heart break lying strewn upon it. “Oscar..?” His voice was weak as he stumbled towards the body.

_ Oscar, it had to be him. The armor, the sword, the shield, the vessel.  _

The body of a man was blackened, covered in soot. His knight’s helmet, so distinct and and unmistakable, was charred beyond recognizable color. Ernest fell to his knees by the body, his hands trembling, and reached to lift the visor of his helm, to see his friend’s face and confirm it. The metal stuck at first, but with a little teasing Ernest managed to raise the visor.

There was nothing.

No body in the armor. No face. No remains. 

Ernest hung his head, tears falling slow and heavy. His hand brushed the gauntlet of the empty shell and fell upon what must have been Oscar’s estus flask. His sword, his shield, his flask, all lay beside him. Leaning forward, Ernest pressed a kiss to the top of the helmet, and sat next to him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I should have. I should have given you more time…” He had failed. They both had failed. They’d extended the age of fire, and Ernest hadn’t let Oscar escape far enough to prevent a relighting. “We’ll do it right this time. I promise.”

Ernest reached for Oscar’s blade, shield, and flask. He propped the shield up beside his friend’s armor, but he claimed his sword and flask for himself. There would be no better side arm than the blade of his friend. 


	3. Monument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Edition

He stumbled up a hill with his blade strapped to his back and Oscar’s strapped to his side. They were beaten, broken, and primarily useless, but he wouldn’t give up on them. He would carry them until he found a way to repair them or at least return some functionality. The wind blew over the crest of the hill before him, and on it he smelled a familiar ash-- Someone had a bonfire not too long ago. It was fresh, perhaps even still burning, and the undead who lit it likely nearby. 

Invigored, he marched over the gravel path only to find the cold husk of bones and ash cold to the touch. It would make for a weak flame should he light it. And if he did so, he wondered, would it burn away at the First Flame, or would it add to the fuel of it all? Would it extend this age of fire? Would it matter?

From his vantage point at the top of the crest, he saw an arena that seemed so similar to Artorias’s grave. A round walled section of graves with some sort of monument in the center. Beyond it he could make out a tower on a distant hill at the edge of a drop off. At the top of that tower… A bell. He knew what to do with a bell… Or, at least, someone would be with the bell.

He stomped down the path towards the monument, shoving the weeping hollows out of his way, determined to make it to that bell. To learn why he was once again undead. One of the hollows grabbed at him, and without looking or thinking he lifted them over his head and flung them into the dirt. They twitched. They grew still. They didn’t move again. Indifferent to the quick violence of this act, he stepped forward through the arch of the first structure, through the grave, like a man in a stupor.

Still in his stupor, he paused at the monument. A statue, it seemed. Grey stone hung in the form of a man kneeling. Through the statue’s chest ran a twisted rusted sword. A ceremonial sword he had only seen placed in bonfires. Ernest ran his thumb over his talisman before moving towards the statue, placing his hand on the stone of its arm, and drawing back in shock when he found it warm with life.

The eyes of the statue were still, but they shimmered with the red life of the abyss. He ran his hand over the man’s forearm, recognizing him for what he was, and stepped around him, his hand trailing along the man’s body. “How are you still alive..?” His voice, still hoarse with ash, barely reached a whisper. “What happened to you..?” The sword ran well through the man. He appeared impaled where the dark sign should have manifested on his left breast. Ernest’s fingers brushed the wound on his back, and abyssal tendrils curled around his hand. The physical manifestations of shadow squirmed, trapped beneath the armor of the frozen man, and leaked out of his back. It seemed clear to him that the sword kept the man and his shadows trapped in place.

To leave him there would be cruel. To cut him down would be cruel. Death was an acceptable fate. Undeath was a curse. This stasis was a torture he couldn’t begin to understand, and Ernest would not be the arbiter to damn this man to a fate such as this.

He knew what he had to do.

Hands on the hilt of the blade, he began to twist the wrought iron sword, gently easing it out of the man and wincing with each horrible noise. Each pained sound of wounded flesh. Each scratch of iron on armor. “Easy does it… I’ve got you...” The sword fell from the wound with a horrible wet squelch, and Ernest dropped it, ready to catch the abyssal man. The man, the statue, fell forward onto Ernest, and though the undead caught him and supported him, the stone knight quickly gathered himself and shot backwards. 

Ernest watched him move with great sorrow, for how the man lifted his weapon, a halberd, and raised it in a challenge reminded him of how the abyss puppeted Artorias. These were not the motions of a wounded man. These were the nimble fingers pulling invisible strings. With great remorse and no regret, Ernest drew Oscar’s sword and fell in step.

It wasn’t the sword that he relied on. Oscar’s blade was a red herring. Every blow he landed came from his talisman. At first the knight’s strikes were easily predicted, parried, and dodged, all returned with a bolt of lightning or a feint, but the man grew more desperate.

Ernest watched in horror as his body succumbed to a great bloody manifestation of the abyss. Whatever had been the man before was quickly consumed with the writhing shadows. It was nothing like he’d seen before, but it was desperate, furious, and ready to give up everything to crush him. The Abyssal creature, no longer the man, manifested monstrous jaws on a great arm and lunged at Ernest, grabbing him in its bloody maw, and crunching down. Ernest screamed, eyes going white with pain, and struck both himself and the creature with his most heart wrenching miracle. 

The Wrath of the Gods had long since lost its original tale. Great faith in the gods had been replaced with great faith in his fellows. His anger, his rage, his love for those he’d damned, exploded from him and left him empty. 

He hit the ground, the abyss receding violently, and lay still. His head rang, and he felt ill, but he was still there. The man lay where Ernest had first found him. He laid free of the abyss, his body face first in the damp stone.

Ernest lifted himself from the wet ground and stumbled to him. “I’m sorry, brother. I’m sorry.” Falling to his knees, he rested his hand on the man’s back covering the wound from the sword. His tears indistinguishable from the blood and sweat.


	4. Crestfallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third Edition

Ash and dirt and dust fell from Ernest’s rusted armor as he stepped through the entrance to the distant shrine. Thoughts of Oscar rolled through his mind like loose stones. He stumbled against the wall, feeling it through the cracked and rotted leather of his armor, and for a moment he thought he saw the Lord Vessel once more. Tears filled his vision as blood filled his mouth, his jaw clenching down on his tongue in an attempt to keep him grounded.

He lurched forward, feet finding stairs, dragging the coiled sword he’d pulled from the breast of the guardian. The twisted iron scraped against the stone, knocking as it hit each step. It seemed quite clear what he was supposed to do, as if the damned flame was calling him. He stumbled blindly towards it, kicking something soft and stumbling.

The soft thing let out a muffled curse.

“Gods damn. Another unkindled, roused from the sleep of death? You’re worse off than the last one.” 

Ernest blinked, squinting, and tried to speak but could only cough. A dark soot came from his throat, and he caught it with his elbow before falling to his knees and hacking. His hacking turned to wheezing before he spat flame and his throat cleared. Clear of mind and evidently still burning, he looked back to the man who was now leaning away from him and glaring. For a moment, the man was all he could focus on. A pointed if concerned glare. A bastard sword strapped to his back. A face worn with exhaustion and hopelessness. 

“What?” Ernest’s word came out hoarse and whispery. “I… What? What do you mean?” He stepped forward, lurching towards the man who scooted further away until he was pressed against a stone pillar. Chain mail. He had a chain mail hood. The stone behind him was dark and grey with thin roots holding on to it and weaving between the gaps. 

Before he could unconsciously move closer, the man threw up a hand. “Gods… you really are worse than the last one… Are you even aware of where you are?” Pale eyes, wide with concern, or more likely fright. Maybe blue. Perhaps grey. Truthfully a sandy brown. Thick eyebrows. Dark stubble. Broken nose. Split lip. Dried, not cracked from impact.

Ernest leaned away before falling gracelessly to his side and shifting to his seat. Tall ceiling, stone, rafters, domed. Dark. Blue and grey. A coiled sword in his hand. 

“No.”

“Do you… know  _ what  _ you are?”

“Undead.”

He reached to his chest to place his hand over his dark sign. The room before them. They sat on a set of stairs that led downward to a circular room. A girl stood beside a basin filled with ash and bones. Her eyes were covered, her hands folded. She was waiting.

“Undead and  _ unkindled, _ ” the man began again. “We are those who failed to link the flame, who tried in some way or another, and died in the process. Of all the undead, we are truly worthless. We’ve already been tested. They--” He waved a hand toward the girl and the basin. “Would have us seek the Lord of Cinder-- do you know what those are?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “True legends. Those with the mettle to link the Flames and live on. But we can’t even  _ die right. _ ” He slumped, fell against the stone pillar dejected. “We’re not even fit to lick their boots, don’t you think?” He sagged, watching the newly unkindled and waiting for an answer. “It gives me conniptions.” 

It was the second burst of life Ernest had faced, and he smiled. “I’m glad I met you.” The man’s face twisted as if being mocked. He opened his mouth ready to lash out, but Ernest continued. “The first person I ran into tried to kill me. I thought I was helping him, and he killed me. You and me? We’re undead, but…” Thrones stood raised above the room before them overlooking the basin. A small figure sat in one of them, dwarfed by his seat. “You’re… You’ve got fire to you. And you’re not trying to kill me.” The man beside him, brown eyes, leather armor. Steel left gauntlet. Decorative left shoulder plate and deep red cape. Knives strapped across him, hidden in folds of cloth. Displayed proudly on belts. Sandy eyes. “Did you… try to link the flame?”

“I-- no. I died on the journey.”

“Then how do you know you couldn’t link it?”

“What?”

“I… I think I did try… But I had companions. I think I must have failed, but they must have succeeded… Because I am here now, and the Fire fades yet again.”

Several archways led to paths away from the main room. Two led to drop offs, another, closer and to the left of him, opened to a hallway. Candle light flickered in the mouth of it. More people, likely. More unkindled.

“What… What do we do if you seize?” Ernest turned once more to the crestfallen man beside him. Though, perhaps, there was too much anger in him to be crestfallen. Overwhelmed, but perhaps not quite resigned yet.

“What?” He shook his head, baffled. “Seize what?” 

“You… You said you had conniptions. What do we do if you have a fit?”

“I…”

“You have a lot of knives on you. Is that a danger? Should we move you to flat ground? How do we time them? Does estus help?”

“What are you going on about?”

“ _ Conniptions.  _ You have fits? Seizures?”

Recognition dawned on the man, and his mouth hung into a bewildered smile. He began to laugh, a confused exasperated laugh, but a laugh none the less, and dropped his face into his palm.

“I do not have fits,” he said through his hand.

“But--”

“It is a figure of speech…” He peeked from his hands to eye the man. Red beard. Hazel eyes-- green on the rims and brown on the inner iris. Bushy eyebrows. Covered in soot. Armor falling apart. Steel rusting. Strangely round in it shape with a bulb for the chest and a tasset like a skirt. Rotting leather holding it together.

“Oh…” Ernest looked away, back to the basin and the cold room. 

“But if I did… you would actually honor whatever request I gave you?”

“Uh…” He glanced back at the man before turning once more towards the basin. “Yeah. Of course I would.”

“What is your name, Unkindled One?”

“Ernest…” Few light brown hairs escaped through the chain mail. The cloth hat beneath it needed repairs. “The Devoted of Berenike.” Voice like old oak boards in a home in the deep of night.

“Hawkwood.” Like honeyed whiskey rolled in a glass but never consumed. 


	5. Andre

He barely looked at the firekeeper. She was a fine child, certainly, and a devoted one, but he couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at her and  _ not  _ see those already dead. Anastacia, who would have died human, as she had wished. 

Anastacia had been trapped, maimed and left in a cell to tend a flame she had no love for. Her people had wounded her for nothing more than a barbaric notion that she should not speak. This girl spoke freely, but her manner, her polite subservience, struck Ernest as deeply wrong. He found himself staring at the ground avoiding her seeming gaze.

She spoke, and he listened, but the familiar sound of a blacksmith’s work began to echo through the cold stone halls. He might have been hallucinating, but it woke him from his regretful state long enough for him to look at the girl. He could have winced at her white hair and covered eyes-- no. She did not truly resemble Anastacia, but she had not been the only firekeeper. It would take him time, but he would escape the connection. It would be easier to see her for herself with the thought severed. But that didn’t matter. The sound, the beat of the hammer, it felt like the beat of his heart. It was as familiar to him as the sound of his own breath. It was as natural as the Great Crows’ calls had been before.

He slipped past the girl without seeing the old woman along the hallway’s wall. Each ringing blow of the hammer on steel drove his footsteps faster. He began to smile. Even if it wasn’t who he thought, for those brief moments he had hope. And that was enough. 

It seemed to be.

A large shirtless man with a massive beard and wild hair sat at an anvil and furnace. Ernest shook his head and dragged a hand over his eyes. He had already hallucinated Oscar, there was no reason for him to believe that Andre, dear Andre, was in the shrine toiling away now. So he stood across the bridge from the vision, content to indulge in it. He would let himself wake from it later, or he would die and go hollow. It didn’t really matter to him. But the man paused and turned his head.

“It can’t be.” He rested his hammer on the anvil. “Ernest? I don’t believe m’ eyes!” The voice shook him from his dream, and Ernest dropped his shield and ran to the man. Andre pulled him into his chest, holding him like a lost child and laughing. “Look at you! All covered in dust and ash. I had always figured the two of you had done it.”

Ernest said nothing as he held onto Andre, his face pressed into his warm shoulder. Andre held him, his hand fiddling with the rotting links in the knight’s armor and coming to his own conclusions. “But if you’re here… I see then…” He leaned back to ease the other man out of his arms. “I’m sorry. It’s good to see you,” he leaned back to look at a small group of confused unkindled sitting on a rug just beyond the bridge. “None of these Unkindled know what they’re doing. It’ll be good to have a veteran.”

“Andre?” He whispered, voice wavering no longer hoarse. His eyes still glassy with tears. 

“Of course you can’t keep wearing that. Leave it with me and I’ll fix it up for you--”

“ _ Andre. _ ” Ernest swallowed thickly as he waited for Andre to listen. “Andre, are we the only ones? Have you seen Solaire?”

The smith looked down avoiding Ernest’s desperate gaze.

“Griggs? Reah? Lau-- Laurentius?”

“Sit with me, Ernest. I have a lot of work to do. And take off that armor. I’ll fix it right yup for ye.”

The old knight sat on the stone, slowly shedding his armor. It baffled him how human he looked beneath it, how his skin was pink and seemingly alive. His old clothing beneath his armor was ragged and rotten, but his body was… almost healthy. He pressed a hand over his dark sign, but there was no gaping wound. There was no burning ring consuming souls and humanity. 

Andre set aside the blade he’d been working on to tend to Ernest’s armor. “You know what we are?” Ernest shook his head, leaning against the anvil. “Unkindled the keeper called us. Someone linked the flame, Ernest, but if you’re here. It wasn’t you.” The cold of the floor began to seep through his legs to his core. “Solaire…” “The keeper says that each time the fire fades, more undead rise. Those who rose in the past and survived to the linking die as humans. But they’ve returned as unkindled. The fire called them, and they failed to link it.”

Ernest rested his head on the anvil so close to where Andre worked. He knew the man wouldn’t hit him. He knew the smith had never missed his mark. It was the ringing of his hammer that grounded him. “Oscar didn’t link it,” he whispered. “Solaire and I. I sent Oscar away. With Solaire in my arms, I reached for the flame, and we burned…” Tears pricked at his eyes, but he felt stable. Calm. “I felt the flame consume us. I watched it fill the kiln… It still burns, Andre. Like a memory.”

“I don’t know then.” The smith worked the chain mail back into repair. “I’m going to need some time on this, Ernest. You’re welcome to sit here with me, but move yer head. It makes me nervous with your cranium right by my work. I’d hate to slip and hit ye. I’d have t’ explain that to the other unkindled. How’d the loyal smith crush his cousin’s head?” Andre chuckled at his own gentle ribbing, and the man’s laugh warmed Ernest just enough to move him from the anvil. 

“Andre…” Ernest fiddled with the fraying hem of his shirt. “We didn’t want to link the flame. We were going to let it fade.” The hammering stopped. “What..?” “But we did. The more we thought about it-- the flame consumed the souls we fed it. It consumed the humanity we offered it. We sacrificed the souls and humanity of those we killed so that it wouldn’t eat us. It felt like placating a starving beast. We went to the kiln to try and kill it.”

“Then what stopped you?” Andre’s voice hung with horror. “Why did y’ link it? If you were going to kill it?”

“Solaire.” 


	6. Wren

Her name was Wren. She didn’t remember if it had always been her name or if she’d earned it, but it fit her like a warm pair of socks. When she’d awoken in the cemetery of Ash, a trail of crippled hollows lead her to the shrine, and the shrine led her to the keeper who sent her to the flame which led her then to the highwall of Lothric. 

The gods had chosen her to reawaken and bear the torch once more. 

In life she had been a Herald for the Way of White. In undeath, her colors had become blue. She followed All-Father Lyod’s teachings, and even now she chanted his holy words and tales. With her spear in hand and shield on her back, she pranced through the tainted hollows. The Lords, starting with the Prince of Lothric, would return to their thrones. She wasn’t sure how she’d do it, but she’d cross that bridge when she got there… 

\--

Ernest stared down from the rooftops at a particularly round and nasty looking knight. A thief, a man named Greirat, stood by his side and clicked his tongue. “That’s no good. I’ll uh, heh, I’ll see you back at the shrine. And ah…” The man ducked his hooded head down. “Please… don’t forget Loretta.” Ernest nodded absent mindedly at the man’s words. It didn’t quite register, but when he turned, Greirat was gone.

“Oh…”

The knight below him wasn’t worth the effort, and in a fashion befitting a tired old man, he simply sat down on the shingles and watched the beastly thing patrol the streets beneath him. Old corpses and still burning rubble lined the courtyard below. At some point the fountain in the middle of it all had once flowed but jammed. The water in it had long since stagnated with blood and ash, but the massive knight still marched seemingly unaware of it all. 

He genuinely considered taking a nap. Long ago he had ribbed Siegmeyer for his fondness of sleep, but it did seem like an excellent idea. The knight wasn’t going anywhere, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Might as well get comfortable and deal with it later… It was his unfortunate luck that the moment he got comfortable a lone undead with a shining breast plate and a blue cape marched into the courtyard. The winged knight, the round beast of a hollow, beneath him spotted the wandering undead, lifted his axe, and charged at her. 

The girl didn’t stand a chance. She barely lept out of the way of the great axe when the knight swung at her a second time. Ernest scrambled to his feet, cursing as he slid on loose tiles. This girl was no hollow, but she was going to die if he didn’t intervene. This wasn’t at all how he wanted to deal the winged knight, but gods be damned.

He whispered a prayer, talisman in hand, and reached for distant sunlight. Lightning filled his hand and stretched out like a javelin. He pulled back his arm to aim for the large knight below him, and he threw it with his entire body. His foot flew forward, and he lost purchase on the roof tops, but his spear struck true. As he stumbled and fell off of his perch, the bolt collided with the knight’s steel armor and echoed within it, ending his undeath. 

The man fell gracelessly on a heap of empty armor beneath the rooftop. The girl began screaming, wailing, making some manner of bloodcurdling terrible sound, and it was all he could do to clamber to his feet and right himself. The smoking corpse of the round knight blocked his view, but her shouting didn’t stop. 

“I’m coming!” He bellowed. “Hold on! I’m coming!” Ernest lept over the broken armor and skidded around the corpse, but the girl… The girl was fine. She bounced, a wide brilliant smile plastered on her soft face. Her dark eyes alight with wonder and joy. Bits of brown loose hair clung to her forehead from beneath her helmet and bobbed with her motions.

“You!” She cried, hands forming fists and bouncing with her. “You! You’re a warrior of sunlight!” Wren had heard distant tales of knights who could grab rays of sunlight and hurl them at the gods’ foes. No such knights served in Mirrah, but there were those who called themselves the “heirs of the Sun”. They had claimed to follow the tradition of the warriors, but none of them could do what she had just seen.

“I uh. Yeah. I’m a warrior of sunlight.” 

“Please teach me! I have heard so much about the warriors! Please teach me how you hold sunlight!”

She looked so bright, so hopeful, so young and excited. Her smile and vigor quickly worked Ernest over, and he found himself smiling back at her. “Well… Alright.” They were both undead. It wasn’t like she wasn’t already trying to take on monsters greater than herself without him. If she died, well, they were all going to die eventually. Hopefully. “You got a talisman, kiddo?”

The girl didn’t have a talisman. She had a small chime. Ernest didn’t know how to cast with a chime, but a miracle catalyst was a catalyst none the less. Her first fistful of sunlight burned her hand, but it filled her with warmth and confidence. Truly the gods had chosen her once more to bear the torch, and this time they had been so gracious as to lend her one of their own. An old mentor of great ages past. By the second knight they encountered, her aim was true and her faith was strong. Ernest was more than a little concerned about her zealotry.

They came to a road between two gates. The logical thing to do would have been to head up the road to the closed gate as it led further into the castle town. Though the pair did not know this, an elderly woman sat beyond the door in a grand foyer. She held the key to both her prince and the world beyond. The sound of their echoing lightning and rolling thunder reached her behind her heavy doors, and she smiled. Fortunate was she that the gods had finally sent faithful her way. The Lord of Sunlight was an old memory, but the Lord of the Storm, the errant eldest, had once been the god of her people. She knew the sounds of His miracles. The Nameless God was a gracious god indeed.

But they did not go to her first. They meandered towards the open door, down the road, and paused at the outer gate. The doors were cracked open with great roots and branches growing over them, sealing them. Ernest could see a distant vista of long open land and a sharp drop through the dried leaves, and as he reached to clear it away, there was a sound like a water skin falling from a shelf and bursting onto the ground.

“What the hell is that!?” Wren darted behind him, between him and the strange portal that flowered before them. It opened like deep violet petals of some fleshy sea creature, and an armored creature, shaped like a man but formed like a dog, crawled from it with a hammer in hand. With it came a gale of frozen air, and Wren, fearful of the monster, readied her spear for it to charge.

The creature roared and pulled back like a spring ready to launch. Ernest turned, talisman in hand, and shouted back. “Lightning!” Catching his meaning, Wren abandoned her stance and drew back with her chime. They launched their great spears at the man-beast. The light of the sun had once peeled away the stone scales of everlasting dragons. It now radiated and burned the shadows within the abyssal monster before them. 

The beast-man reeled then charged. It’s hammer in hand as it galloped towards the two of them. Ernest shoved Wren out of the way not for fear of her safety but for a clear shot at the beast. “ _ My guiding Sunlight, _ ” he whispered to his sword before shifting his stance so that the man-beast would run itself upon his blade. Electricity filled his hands and sparked across his blade and armor. The beast approached, so much larger up close, and raised itself and hammer to swat Ernest aside.

But Ernest moved with it. Stepped forward into the charge at the last moment so that the creature’s great armored chest would meet his shoulder. He turned, spun, electricity arcing from him to the man-beast, and shoved his great blade between the joint of the man-beast’s shoulder and chest piece. Vordt screamed. Abyssal blood sprayed, and Wren shouted, tossing lighting at the thrashing monster. Maimed and lame, the creature tried to break away from Ernest’s sword but only drove the blade further into it’s flesh.

“Wren! Wren kill it!”

Vordt’s struggling battered Ernest and threw him to the side. His blade finally fell from the flailing beast, but there was no coming back from the wound. Dying and in pain, the man-beast would do anything to kill its attackers. But with every blast of lightning and every heart beat, it slowed. They merely needed to stay out of its reach.

When Vordt had stopped thrashing. When it was tired and bleeding out, Ernest approached it with his sword in hand. “Wait, Ernest! It’s still dangerous!” Wren watched, horrified, as he moved to the man-beast. “And so are we, Wren. When you kill someone, Wren of Mirrah, do you leave them to suffer? Is it not better to end it quickly? Is that not a mercy? As a warrior of sunlight, you must exact as painless of a death as you are able. Do not needlessly draw it out. Do you understand me?”

A flash of lightning and steel, and Vordt was no more. Wren sheepishly hung her head and avoided looking at the corpse of the beast-man. Ernest stomped past her, his feet heavy not out of frustration but out of exhaustion, and pushed open the gate. The doors of it seemed to have been beaten inwards. The vines, the wood, seemed to have held the doors closed, but with Vordt’s death, they crumbled beneath Ernest’s touch. When they opened, Ernest’s shoulders fell at the view of distant lands and the road sheared. 

“Mr. Ernest…?” Wren slunk up behind him and looked past him. “There’s another gate… One that leads towards the castle. Where the Lord of Cinder Prince Lothric is supposed to be.” The knight turned toward her, smiled softly, and nodded. 

“Lead the way, kiddo.”

  
  



	7. Table of Contents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd edition. Updated: 4/20/2020

Ernest had always been chatty. Even after his reincarnation, the absolute lonely desolation of the world and the grim prospect of venturing forth without his guiding sunlight, he remained warm and talkative, but something about the settlement beyond the wall had shut him up. Whatever had become of the Way of White was long gone, and whatever this twisted desperate religion was sickened him. 

Petrus had been a vile bastard, but he had never dealt with abyssal or dark miracles. The prayers he had passed on had been simple adorations of All-Father Llyod or stories of the Lords. The first miracle he’d taken to the face had been a swarm of incorporeal insects that tried to eat him alive before fading into nothing. One of the vile casters, a large rotten woman, had lit herself on fire and grabbed him, said something about a “bastard’s curse” before laying him flat on the ground. 

He was fortunate to have found a companion at the highwall, for the girl took care of the woman before she could do anything else. 

The buildings of the town were derelict and barely holding together. The street only seemed to lead in one direction as though the town had been built along a road. Ernest frowned as he realized there was no land for farming. There was no river for fishing. There was nothing for this town to profit from, and when he pushed open the door to one of the empty houses, he found it filled not with furniture but cages. Horrified, he stepped back and let the door shut on its own weight. 

Wren was fast and agile, and Ernest was slowing down. His body wasn’t any more worn than it was before, but he struggled to will himself to keep up with her. She darted to and fro taking down hollows before they could strike, and though she didn’t say it, she was trying to earn his approval. She’d messed up with the dog-man, and she’d slipped up with the winged knight… If he was to see her as a worthwhile mentee, she had to prove it. She would be so effective that he wouldn’t have to lift his sword. Then when he saw her competence, he would share his tales, his miracles, and his trust!

A man hung a foot off the ground from a thick tree in a cage lined with knives. He held still though a breeze would brush him into the blades and cut his skin. The knives had already cut into his strangely feathered shawl, but he could not see the damage for a wrap that covered his eyes. Wren froze. If he were hollow, then she should leave him, or… no. That would be too long of a death. It would be cruel. “Uh… Hello?!” She called up to the man. “Are you still human?!” 

The man shifted, his hands moving like reeds in the wind. “Ohh! An unkindled one! Why yes!” His voice creaked like a tree in the wind. “Welcome to my abode!”

“Your abode?” Wren stared up at him aghast. “Your _abode?_ What? You’re--”

“I know. I am aware. I am a crow trapped in a cage. But what a chance encounter! For you see I hear that you unkindled make wonderful vessels.” He reached for the bars of his cage somehow avoiding the blades. He chuckled, and as he did so Ernest reached the two of them. “What do you say, care to learn pyromancies from this old man?” Wren looked back to Ernest who’s approach had been far from silent. His armor weighed him down, and his weight lent a heavy crunch to his steps. 

“Pyromancy, huh?” He looked over the caged man and his companion. “I’ve never met a pyromancer I didn’t like… I’m Ernest.” He moved to pick whatever lock held the old man caged, but it swung open without resistance, and the pyromancer stepped from it.

“I am Cornyx of the Great Swamp, and it warms my heart to hear of your fondness. So often the faithful see us as heretics, and you are both rather devout, are you not?”

“I wouldn’t call myself practicing.” Ernest chuckled and held out his hand. Wren watched, confused. Cornyx placed his hand in Ernest’s and let him shake it once. “But I can still rain sunlight down upon my foes.”

“And Fire… I would love to see your flame.” Ernest’s smile faded with Cornyx’s comment. Wren cocked her head, wondering if the older fellow was coming on to her friend or if he was actually a secret pyromancer. Ernest pulled a thin bone from his side pocket-- a homeward bone that carried a delicate miracle to transport a person and whatever they carried on them to the bonfire-- and stuffed it into Cornyx’s hand. 

“I’m sure you have enough flames of your own to tend to. Go make yourself at home at the shrine this takes you to. We’ll see you later.” Despite the coolness in Ernest’s voice, Cornyx took the bone with a sly smile and snapped it. A white light escaped it and surrounded him, and in a moment he was gone.

“Ernie, what do you mean you wouldn’t call yourself practicing?” Wren tugged on his arm as he marched off with a cloud over his head. He shrugged her off with a noncommittal grunt and led them down the empty road to the beginnings of a graveyard. He chuckled, as it was a bit late for that, and stepped out into it. Barely a yard into the graveyard, a group of hollows spotted them and began to make their way towards them. Wren darted forward with Ernest close behind to meet them, but moments before they could reach the hollowed group, a spearlike arrow slammed down on the hollows, impaling two of them and sending a third flying.

Wren briefly glanced at Ernest in horror as they both came to the decision to _run like hell._

He and the girl sprinted through raining arrow-spears past a thin white tree, past a cathedral with a freakishly large tree in the courtyard, and then fell down into a wide sewer hallway with several rats and a hound. The water was murky but mostly clean, and after quick work of the rats, they paused for a breather. 

“I’m a little disappointed,” Ernest began with a chuckle. “Back in my day, the rats carried scavenged humanity on them. Little black spirits that wavered and wobbled. You could feed them to the fire to stop it from eating you.” He poked the big rat with the tip of his sword. “Do you… do you know what a humanity is, Wren?”

Wren leaned on the ladder leading out of the sewer on the far end from where they’d fallen in. “Huh? Humanity? Like? As a concept? I guess… It’s what makes us us, right? What makes us different from these rats? Our capacity for compassion and love?”

“Yeah… Something like that, but also something like an ember. Here--” He pulled the burning humanity sprite from his side pack. “Imagine this ember, but dark and fluid. Wobbly, soft, and warm. Like… A bit like jelly.” The ember was stiff in his hand like burning wood. It hurt to hold for too long, so he held it out for the girl to take, then he dropped it in her hand.

Satisfied with their rest, Ernest looked first up towards the top of the ladder then second to a grated door on the wall at their level. Curious, he pulled on the door. It was locked-- of course it was locked. Everything was bloody locked. But it wasn’t blocked off… He jiggled the handle, then turned and smiled wickedly at Wren.

“I want to find out who’s shooting those arrows. … You want to see a noble knight in action, Wren?”

“Oh?!” She bounded over. “Are you gonna kick it down!?” She’d seen him lift and throw things far larger than himself. Her mind danced to images of him kicking the metal gate down or blowing it open with a holy miracle.

Instead, he pulled a few thin metal tools from his side pack and began to pick the lock.

“Oh…” 

He chuckled at her disappointment, but once he’d unlocked the gate it swung easily open. “Let’s see what they locked away, kiddo.”

What they had locked away was a statue of the Carim goddess Velka. Ernest took no time in dropping to his knees before it and whispering a prayer. Wren watched, confused. All the miracles he’d cast had been sunlit. Lightning and healing prayers. She didn’t understand why he’d knelt and prayed before Velka’s statue. 

“Wait…” She paused behind him. “Ernie, I thought your miracles were way of white or something… Why are you praying to Velka? She’s all guilt and atonement.” 

He whispered a moment longer before turning back to her, still on his knees. “Wren… It’s always a good idea to revere the old gods. Velka’s never been my patron, but some of hers were friends of mine. I’d like to think she’s watching out for them.” Ernest rose with a groan, cracked his back, and turned to look down the hall past the girl. “Well. Shall we?”

\--

“What? What?! First zombies, and now creepy root skeletons?” She struggled with her spear. For all it’s sharpness and deft usage, it did little to the solid bone of the reanimated skeletons. Ernest had far less trouble-- the weight of his greatsword cleaved through the weak linkages in their joints and spines. But Wren was not having it. She stabbed her spear through their ribs then did what she could to twist and snap them apart, but by the time she had disabled one, Ernest had cleared out the rest. She trudged behind him, annoyed at her own inability to handle the skeletons, and grumbled.

The dirt turned to mud as they stepped out of the sewer tunnel into a pit with the settlement above them. Ernest raised a hand to hush her, as they both could see figures of the undead morticians above them waiting with their disgusting jars. Wren stifled a groan before stepping as lightly as she could through the pit into a ravine behind her new mentor. Maybe, she thought, if they chucked a bowl full of guts at them, it’d hit Ernest first. 

It didn’t happen. The weren’t pelted with guts and blood as they snuck through the stone. The ravine did end with no natural way up, but Ernest pointed to a door carved into the stone before quietly stepping into it.

The door led to a small platform with a long ladder down to another section of sewer with another ladder leading out of across from them. A single rat mosied about picking on a corpse. “When there’s one rat,” the girl began. “There’s several more waiting,” Ernest finished with a pleased nod. “How would you handle this?” She balked, looking up to him. There was no way an experienced knight like himself was deferring to her. “I. I uh. I’d go in swinging.”

“And when your spear is stuck in one rat, how do you handle the second biting at your leg?”

“Well you’re there… Wouldn’t you take care of the second rat?”

“Assuming I’m not taking care of one on me. It takes a moment’s notice for it all to go to shit. Think again.”

She paused, looking down. One rat was out, several more likely near by… 

“I’d run as fast as I could if I were alone to the second ladder. Rats can’t climb ladders.”

“Good. Better. But there’s two of us.”

Wren ground her teeth in thought. “Maybe… I’d run to the second ladder and take up position to stab down at them?”

“You’d loose your spear.”

She stomped, frustrated. He had an answer, she knew it, but she didn’t know what he was fishing for. “Fine. I would listen to my seasoned friend about how he would do it!”

“Aww… Wren… That’s sweet. But no. Look at what we’ve got with us. We have some loose souls, a few skulls those dogs were chewing on, some fire bombs, a couple of miracles to heal and harm with, and our selves.…” He pointed down to the rat. “We know there’s more, but we don’t know how many more. So if we go down there, we’re fighting without knowing what we’re going up against. So what would you do?”

Her eyes widened. 

“Bait them.”

“ Exactly. And then?”

“Bomb them.”

“Good. What about stragglers?”

“If there’s only a few, take them out with our blades. If there’s more… You throw lightning.”

He slapped her shoulder and beamed. “Atta girl, Wren. Now here.” He dropped a skull in her hand and waited for her to chuck it. True to their expectations, several more rats meandered out to investigate the dropped skull. They nibbled at it, interested, but didn’t do much else until the two unkindled above them began to pelt them with fire bombs. 

The smell of cooking flesh and burning hair quickly filled the room. Wren wavered as Ernest dropped down the ladder to the pile of dead rats and looked up the ladder on the other side. He waited, smiling, until Wren cautiously joined him. “I’ll head up first-- don’t argue with me. I have a helmet on. You don’t. If someone kicks me.” He smiled, a bit of fire dashing behind his eyes, and Wren shrugged. 

“Just don’t land on me when you fall.” She chuckled at how noisily he ascended. The man couldn’t be sneaky if his life depended on it. His shield, tied to his back, rang against his armor, and his sword banged between them like a broken bell. Wren followed close behind him and regretted it as bits of dirt and grime fell from his boots onto her. She wanted to complain in good humor, but there was no speaking over his clanking.

When they reached the top, she spat at the ground. “Ernie, I am never sticking behind you on a ladder again.” 

“Don’t stick so close to me then, Wren.” 

It was then a rat about the size of Wren’s boot ran over Ernest’s foot. He jumped at the contact, then chuckled. “You see that? What an unusually sized rat.”

“Maybe it was a baby?”

“Ahh, who's there?” A voice neither of them knew called out from down the hall. “Is someone there?” It rang like a chime, a soft and dainty bell, in a church. “Please… dark surrounds me, nibbles at my flesh. Little creatures, they never. Stop. Biting .” 

Wren darted around Ernest towards the voice. She recognized a girl in need, and her mentor quickly followed. He feared a trap, but what they found was a young woman locked away and crying. 

“We’re coming kiddo, we’re coming!” He called to her before quickly pulling out his picks and working on the door.

“Is no one there? Please... Please reach out and touch me. Hold out your hand--”

Before she could say any more, her voice broke into quiet sobs. Ernest fumbled at the lock, but once it was open Wren darted inside to grab the girl into a hug. 

“We’re here!” She all but shouted. “We’re here miss!”

Ernest dropped by next to her, his hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“We have you there, kiddo. We have you. You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

“Praise the merciful gods above…” The woman, a young thing in white robes, leaned into Wren’s embrace and began to cry freely. “I am Irina. Of Carim.” Her voice shook in between laughing and tears. “You are champions? You must be. Your touch is so warm...” “Yes.” Wren cocked her head and stared Ernest down in confusion. Thus far he had denied anything to do with being a champion. “I am no such creature. I am so fortunate for the gods’ mercy to have let my path cross with yours. I came to this land so that I might be a firekeeper, but I am weak--” 

“You are no such thing!” Wren blurted out before blushing.

“Oh but I am…” She rested her head against Wren, soaking in her warmth. “I cannot even tend the flames. But… You are both holy. If it wouldn’t trouble you--”

“Not at all!” Wren blurted again.

The woman softly chuckled, and Ernest squeezed her shoulder.

“Irina, I am Ernest of Berenike, and my companion who holds you is Wren of Mirrah. We set out to help people. Helping you is not trouble. It’s our goal.”

“Oh sweet champions…” She whispered like she was partially sleeping. “I should like to serve you. I was a nun in my homeland. I know scant few tales, but I can share them with you. I can read to you, should you find braille divine tomes…”

Wren beamed at Ernest. She knew he would agree to bringing her back, but she still felt like she had to convince him that it was worth it, and he chuckled at her obvious eagerness. Sensing Irina’s deep self loathing and obvious tendency to tear herself down, he consented. “Wren’s tired of this old man’s stories. I’m sure she’d rather hear the tales from someone who can read the books. Wren. Would you?” He gestured towards the way they came, towards the bonfire. “It should all be cleared out. Get her home safely.” 

Wren all but leapt upwards. She still held tightly onto Irina, but they held each other like two dear friends. “Ernie this is going to be great! Irina, you’re going to love it! You’ll never be alone again! Ernie keeps bringing home strays! Oh… Well. Hmm…”

He winked as they headed out the tunnel. He planned on following them, but he still wanted to know what was in the tower that rained down arrows upon them.

\------

He stood a bit straighter. Just has he had moved heaven and hell to protect Reah, he would ensure this child’s safety. The girl would go with Wren, and she would be safe in the shrine. Perhaps she would find comfort in Andre’s presence or the companionship of the firekeeper. It was then he saw an armored figure sitting on the ledge, and something deeply set in him roiled in anger. The knight’s helmet resembled some sort of black iron beast, and the hammer beside him looked as though it weighed as much as its wielder. 

“What are you doing sitting on cliff ledges like this?” He pulled his sword off of his back and held it in its sheath. “You look like you’re waiting to be kicked. You have something to do with the girl in that cell back there?”

The knight groaned and gripped the greathammer beside them. 

“My business is my own. But you? Another one of those Unkindled, are you? All you faceless Undead, behaving as if you deserve respect. Shouting out demands without so much as a greeting.”

Ernest bristled. He’d come off strong, and the man had returned the sentiment.

“I’m sorry, I’m a bit hard of hearing. I need you to speak up.”

“You’re another Unkindled marching around as if you were something you’re not.” He spoke louder. “And now, you've gone and rescued the wench… How very quaint, pitying creatures that are beyond help. Well if you want to take over her protection, I won’t stop you. I’m tired of watching her anyways.”

Bulky and short, Ernest found it easy to hide his speed and agility. He lunged at the man who was at least a foot taller than him, grabbed him by the collar and held him over the ledge in such a way that the knight’s feet still touched the ground beneath Ernest.

“Oh. So you ARE waiting to be kicked off then? For being a bastard? Locking girls away for what? Their protection was it? Or are you the world’s worst jailor. Fine job on that.” The knight growled in return, his hand flying to Ernest’s wrist. “Give me one good solid reason why I shouldn’t chuck you off this cliff.”

“Because I am sworn to protect that woman, and I have done so. She’s alive, and she’s fine. Containing her keeps out those who would hurt her just as well. But if you’re so eager to take the duty upon yourself, then by all means do so. But if you turn on that good will, and if I find you’ve brought her ill.”

Ernest’s grip tightened, his knuckles white beneath his armor and a rare rage plain on his face. He jerked the knight to him, close enough to kiss, and growled into his ear.

“I have cut your kind down before, and I will do it again. If I ever see your bastard face around that girl--”

“Presumptuous, aren’t you?” He broke free of Ernest’s hold and dodged around him to solid ground. “She is your charge now, Unkindled. And so long as you ensure her safety, I am no concern to you. But when she asks, and she will ask, you ensure her that her knight, Eygon of Carim, is still watching over her. Whatever you think of me--” He growled, jabbing in Ernest’s direction for emphasis. “That girl needs to know it. Or would you have her think she’s been abandoned?”

Ernest stood his ground, glaring. 

“She already thinks that. Eygon of Carim. She already thinks she’d been left alone to the abyss. Some guardian you claim to be that your charge falls into despair right before your eyes.”

Eygon straightened, hand falling by his side. His voice grew quieter but did not lose its edge. 

“You’ll find soon enough, knight. You cannot pour from an empty cup. And when you have been drained, you will need someone else to pick up where you leave off. I will be there when that happens. I will return for the girl.”


	8. Long May the Sun Shine

Ernest could have been spitting fire at that man. That  _ Eygon.  _ Rat bastard-- he knew his kind. Knew that girl was never safe with such a man. He had known two people like him, though one was more obvious with his intention to murder. Petrus, however, had no such leeway. He had always pretended to care, and he was the worst of them for it. Lautrec, at least, had always been open about murder.

With one last glare at the knight, Ernest pushed open the great stone doors to the tower. He stepped through the hall towards the wooden lift ahead of him, but before he could reach it it began to lift. Concerned, he readied his blade for whatever would arise.

His heart stopped.

He knew that armor, valiant knight, and his sword fell from his hand. The man walked, hmming and mmming without seeing Ernest before him. A man sitting on a stone staircase, dozing at the closed gate to a keep. A man standing in the sunlight of a window, sleeping peacefully just feet away from death. A man dozing in a swamp surrounded by poisoned water and leeches. A man charging to death for the sake of pride and barely coming out alive. 

A daughter, mourning.

“Sieg… Siegmeyer, my old friend…” Ernest’s mouth hung ajar, he reached for the knight. “Is that… is that you?”

“Oh ho?” The knight snapped to. “Siegmeyer? Hmm? Oh no. I am Siegward of Catarina. I cannot say I have seen a Sieg _ meyer _ … I am terribly sorry to disappoint.” He looked up the shaft of the tower. “I would offer to help you find this man, but I am in a bit of a pickle.”

Ernest frowned and studied the man. His voice was so familiar, and yet the way he held himself was so different from his dozing friend. “Perhaps I could help you… If I could move on from this conundrum. You see. This lift only goes down, and I need to get up. Surely you’ve stepped near a white birch only to be fired upon. I suspect the arrows are coming from up there.”

“I’m Ernest… of Berenike. I doubt the man I mistook you for walks again. I had only met two Catarinan knights before you ages ago. Do you… all hmm and mmm as you think?” He chuckled before moving to see what the man looked towards. “I can help you with this with ease. And as you arrived, a second lift moved up. It is likely that there are two connected lifts. If we send this one down, the other should follow. But you wouldn’t see that without someone else starting the lift...”

To demonstrate, Ernest tapped the pressure plate with his foot then stepped off the lift before it could take him with it. Siegward laughed as the first lift disappeared beneath them and an upper lift took its place. He readily stepped upon it and waited for Ernest. “You are a genius, my friend. Absolutely brilliant.” Ernest joined him on the lift unable to speak as it rose. 

The wind gently blew through the tower as the lift slowly took them upwards. Ernest breathed deeply and soaked in the peace of the breeze. He closed his eyes, and began to hear something like snoring. Siegward wobbled in place as the lift rose, then suddenly fell forward and tumbled off. Ernest grabbed at him in a panic but missed and fell with him. 

Their round hollow armor let out a harsh metal clang when they collided. Siegward woke from his sudden nap to find Ernest draped over his chest and groaning. “Oh.” Ernest rolled off of him, holding his head. “Forgive me, Siegward.” Somehow they had hit a rafter or a construction platform.

“Oh dear me.” Siegward started. “I don’t quite understand what happened. Are you ok, Ernest of Berenike?”

Ernest looked at him through the slit in his helmet, and puffed a half hearted laugh. “Yes, Siegward. I am fine.”

“Good. Good. Now where have we found ourselves…”

Siegward continued to speak, though his words fell on deaf ears. Ernest lifted himself and stood there in a daze listening to the man speak and watching his mannerisms. Siegward stepped out of the tower through a gap and sat on the wall patting the spot beside him. He chuckled at how absolutely lost Ernest seemed to be. “I take it that my resemblance to your friend is uncanny. That or I am simply a stunning specimen. I should like to think it is the latter.” 

Ernest sputtered and choked, his face turning red. He took too long to think of a way to respond, and Siegward picked up the conversation before letting it fall to awkward silence.

“Now… back to that thing out there… You see that humongous beast? Nod for me this time. Yes good. Now I am no coward. I’ve a steady hand, but that thing makes my skin crawl…”

Ernest looked out over the roof tops to where Siegward pointed. Pacing the court yard was a great old demon. The creature burned, but no longer blazed. “He looks lost…” Ernest watched it with compassion. 

“Lost?” Siegward dropped his hand and looked to the strange knight. “How do you mean?”

“Well…” He shifted and pulled his helmet from his head. “He’s all alone. The town isn’t completely burned. And the way he moves reminds me of a pained animal… Like a lost pained dog.” Ernest dropped his gaze then looked back to Siegward. “What do you think? Should we do something?”

“I could try talking some sense into him…” He raised his gauntled to the chin of his helmet. “No, I think not. He's far too over-heated.” He hummed in thought. “Going straight at the beast swords drawn would be suicide. No. I've got to use my head. And  _ think _ .”

They sat together, thinking. Ernest looked to the top of the tower where the arrows had rained down from. He knew he could take on the demon himself. He could snuff that flame like a wayward ember drifting from a fire. He would do this on his own. Siegward would never have the chance to be a Siegmeyer.

So he stood, cracked his back, and hopped down from the tower wall. 

The demon saw him hop down and began to stalk towards Ernest, flames rising in the wind. He lifted his blade to his shoulder and raised his guard. It would be good to be back in the saddle.

“No! You fool!” Siegward’s voice echoed from the tower wall, his leap after Ernest audible in the soft thunk upon the ground. “What are you doing?!” The demon began to charge, axe swinging in its arms, intent clearly murderous. “You should have waited!” Ernest turned, briefly, to see Siegward charging towards him, blade at the ready. The knight bellowed, cried out, and pushed into the fray.

The demon brought down his axe while Ernest was distracted, but it did not hit him. A great blast knocked the demon backwards, the axe deflecting from its trajectory. The knight’s technique was mesmerizing. It was so clearly from the same origin as Siegmeyer’s, but there was a skill, a strength, a  _ finesse  _ to it that the other man had not had. A forceful miracle to disorient the foe and a deftly guided great sword to bring pain and harm.

Ernest’s own style was harsh in comparison. Years of hollowing and isolation had taken the nuance of Berenike swordsmanship from his form, but he was still effective. The miracles of the other man inspired his own, and once more he found himself reaching for his talisman and knocking back the demon. Lightning crackled freely in his hands once more. It no longer puttered but cried through the air as it flew. 

The great creature began to grow cold and ashen. Ernest balked once more when he met the demon’s eyes, but Siegward did not allow for cruelty in hesitation. They had started this, they would finish it swiftly.

It fell like a great tree. The body creaking like breaking wood. Cinders and ash flying into the air as it collapsed. Ernest took a moment to revere the creature, the being, who’s flame had gone out. As he did so, the knight dropped to the ground, puffed, and laughed. 

“A fine show! But you musn’t get over your head like that! We have our duties, and we must attend them.” Ernest dropped beside him, smiling and warm. “But for the moment, we have a toast to make!” He pulled two traveling barrels of… something from his side pack and handed one to Ernest. “To your valor! My sword! And our victory together!” 

“To your brilliance! My faith renewed! And our endeavors!”

“Long may the sun shine!”

He laughed, and Ernest found himself laughing with him. The drink, some form of estus, felt far warmer and softer than anything he’d pulled from the flames, and he found himself dozing along side his new companion. Siegward snored loudly, and though Ernest did not want to wake him, he needed to return to Wren. He eventually jostled the knight, and when he roused, Ernest was kneeling in front of him, looking him the eyes.

“Siegward… I would like to see you again. In this world of people fleeing their responsibility, I would like to meet with you.”

“Oh? Are you coming on to me, Ser Berenike?”

“I. That wasn’t my intention. I would not be opposed but that’s not my point. Eh heh…” He flushed again. “No I. I’ve been derailed…” 

Siegward laughed at him then dropped a hand on his arm. “I would be honored to fight by your side again.”

“And it would please me immensely to have you at my back. But if you find yourself at Firelink Shrine, do not hesitate to call upon me.”

“May the sun shine upon you, and may we meet again.”


	9. Road of Sacrifices

Ernest sat at the feet of the giant. The man stood tall with his large knotted bow. The wind blew steady and firm through the open belfry, and when Ernest closed his eyes he forgot everything but that brisk wind against his face and body. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite place what. Berenike, perhaps, as the wind felt like home.

The giant, a fellow of few words, had greeted Ernest with a simple phrase. “Who are you?” It made him chuckle and smile. He had only met two other giants in his life, so he made no assumptions about the one before him. Any assumptions would have been wishful thinking. 

He had given his name and had been given a thin white branch in exchange. So Ernest sat, pleased, for some time with his new friend. From their vantage he could see a twisted road weaving through a scraggly forest towards a large ruined fortress and a murky swamp. The road split before then and led to somewhere he could not quite make out, but beyond it was a great cathedral. On the roof of the cathedral he could barely make out a small white birch tree. That tree was loved, he could plainly see, for it was surrounded by more of the great spear-arrows. Again, Ernest chuckled. He reached to pat the giant’s leg before returning to the lift from whence he came.

Knowing the manner in which the lifts worked, Ernest set off the plate to trigger the lift back upwards and summon the second one from below. He would feel better if he scouted the area before bringing Wren with him. The girl was green, and he wouldn’t forgive himself if something happened to her. So he stood relaxed with his sword on his shoulder as the lift sunk into the basement. As it dropped, he heard a familiar voice chime from above.

“Ernie?! Hey Ernie wait!”

“I’m just scouting ahead, Wren!” He shouted up, his voice echoing through the elevator shaft. “Just being nosey!” Even raised, his voice still sounded bland and monotone. It was if he were simply speaking louder. “I’ll send the lift back up to you, hold on!” The wooden platform reached the ground with a soft thud. He stepped off the plate then back on before hopping off of the elevator to send it back up.

“Wren. Wren it’s coming back up for you. OK? It’s really convoluted but I’m down at the-- oh wow.” As the elevator ascended, it revealed a deep pit beneath it. He couldn’t see the bottom of it, so he pulled a prism pebble from his pocket and chucked it down. It fell and faded into shadow, and his face scrunched in disgust. 

The lift caught the top of his helmet while he was looking down at the pit. “Ernie what are you looking at?” The girl hopped off next to him while he readjusted his helmet. 

“Send the lift back up Wren, I want your thoughts on something.”

She eyed him curiously, then hopped on the pressure plate and sent the lift back up. A soft “ewwww” escaped her as she looked down into the darkness. Without Ernest’s prompting, she picked up a rock and tossed it down waiting for a sound, but no echoing impact reached them. She tossed another and waited, then looked to Ernest and scrunched her nose.

“Gross.”

“What? Why?” He waited for her insight, curious as to why it evoked the same feeling in her.

“Cuz it’s gotta be wet down there. Wet and soft. And I don’t want to know why. C’mon, Ernie. It’s probably moldy and mildewy in here, and I don’t wanna catch allergies from it.” She bounced away from the lift and down further into the wide open basement. Ernest wondered where she drew her energy from and if it was a source he could tap as well. He had died in his mid-thirties. He hadn’t been terribly worn down, but the energy of youth still ran through this girl. He’d be run ragged trying to keep up with her.

Unlike the sewers of before, the basement was wide and clean. Marble stone tiles laid out a plain white floor with grey stone pillars supporting the tower above. He chuckled as he thought of what sort of things must have passed through the basement. Perhaps religious meetings, or a trade center, some sort of market. Or, judging by how Wren spun and whirled, a dance hall. 

She stopped short of the large door at the end of the hall. Wren stood stock still as Ernest caught up with her. Beyond, waiting in the smaller foyer, was a twisted armored creature with its back turned to them facing another shut door likely waiting for some poor fool to open it from the other side. Its armor glimmered silver in the low light, and frost crawled along it and the pillars around it. With each breath came a quiet whistle and a small fog. The creature, no doubt a person like Vordt, held a long sword in one bestial hand. 

While Ernest had spent time with Siegward and the giant, Wren had met with Cornyx. Ernest radiated some form of fatherly energy, but Cornyx took it a step further. He felt like a grandfather. He was warm, he was old, and he was excited to teach. He had not hesitated to share his flame with her, and though the significance of such an act was initially lost, the excitement of discovery still flourished. For most of her life, she’d been told that pyromancers were heretics. They warped into hideous men and women from their sin, but Cornyx was neither warped nor hideous. He was just. Old.

And he shared with her how the flame of pyromancy was so very similar to the flame of the Bonfire. How the mother of pyromancy was a Lord of the flame, and how she spread the worship of the fire. It was a holy work just as miracles were, but it did not leave room for a middleman.

The frozen beast-man slowly turned towards them, and before it could charge, Wren screamed and chucked a fireball. Ernest followed her lead though he kept his flame to himself and instead pelted it with lighting and his own bellows. Whatever the creature was and had once been quickly fell to the rain of thunder and fire. It sizzled and burned, air fleeing from it’s armor in a gut churning squeal, until there was nothing but steaming armor of a once man laying scrambled on the floor before them. 

Ernest began to chuckle at the ridiculousness of it. The last frozen knight they’d dealt with had been a monster. A large and reckless beast that hit hard and hit fast. But this beast-man fried and sizzled in a way reminiscent of shelled creatures in a pan. He was glad he didn’t really eat any more.

Wren turned to Ernest in horror as the man giggled, but he waved a hand in lieu of explaining himself and marched to the door. When he pushed it open, he leaned into it with his shoulder and walked backwards with it until the sun and warm air fell upon them once again. Fresh earth and grass gave beneath his heavy boots, and for a moment he felt calm. 

\---

The calm didn’t last long. Ernest had been content to leave the strange bird folks alone to their lamentations, but when the leaders of their little packs began spewing toxic air and screaming, sicking their followers on the two of them, he threw the benefit of the doubt to the wind and struck them down before they took their stand against the two of them.

Wren paused staring at the corpse of one of the sad bird-folk. It was a pitiful creature all hollow and rotten. “Ernie, do you think they--” Her lips twisted and eyes fluttered in a dramatic display of disgusted revelation. Whatever she had been on to fled her thoughts. “Ernest… That awful man. When he was talking about ‘having the stones for it’ about the foot of the tower and the path from it… you think he was talking about these things?” She looked up to meet Ernest’s placid stare. “Do you think… these were the sacrifices?”

The old knight paused and let out a thoughtful breath. “I dunno. He also said Aldrich ate people. And Aldrich is in the cathedral of the deep, and that’s where this path leads. So…” He shrugged. “I dunno. What I  _ do  _ know is I smell a bonfire, so let’s pause and collect there, alright? We can speculate on even ground rather than out here where one of those bird-folk might decide to get us for getting their friends.” He turned and continued down the winding path. “Even hollows have friends, Wren.”

\---

The road to the cathedral was an arduous one, but it was hardly the worst thing the two of them had faced. With Horace at their back, Anri felt as though they could take on the world. Not only would they put down Aldrich, but together they could link the flame and let life continue. While they sat upon a broken wall, their dear companion stood silent and vigilant. Horace rarely spoke, and when he did it was in broken words. His language was a more subtle one. It had nuance that took time to learn and understand, but Anri could read him better than any spoken person.

Neither of them could truly remember what had happened. Such was the nature of trauma. But what they could remember was each other. Anri’s earliest memories were of Horace, and that’s what mattered. Aldrich had stolen the lives of their friends and families, but he had not stolen them from each other. 

So Horace stood in his strange uncomfortable armor. It was a comfort for him, and Anri would never judge him for it, but they were glad that they did not feel the need for such a shell. They looked upwards, shifting in their own knightly plate, and sighed. Horace had wanted to pause, and Anri knew that meant he understood that  _ they themself  _ needed to pause, but they hated that Horace knew them better than they did. They turned, looking over their companion--

“OSCAR?!”

A man’s disbelieving shout jolted them from their idle thoughts. Horace sprung forward, halberd at the ready. Anri scrambled for their sword by their side and hopped off the wall, ready to fight whatever came--- A man in strange plate armor and a girl about their age stood at the defunct portcullis. The girl drug a hand down her pretty face before reaching up to rub at her forehead. She whispered something, and the man excitedly turned to her and began chattering.

Finally the girl raised her hand to silence him then began to walk over to the two on the far side of the wall. “Uh. Hi. I’m Wren of Mirrah!” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “And this goon is my… uh… mentor? Companion? Doofus? This is Ernest.”

“I’m Anri--”

“I told you so, Ernie.”

The man glared at the young woman, his beard sticking out of the front of his helmet. “Wren, don’t interrupt people.”

Horace still stood at the ready. A wrong move and he’d be there to take care of the two unkindled who’d so brashly announced their presence. 

“Anri of Astora…” They continued uncertainly. “And this is my friend and companion, Horace.”

Ernest perked up then frowned. “Uh. Forgive me. For startling you. I had a friend who wore armor like yours. With a surcoat like yours. I keep thinking I see him, but your likeness was a far more convincing. Uh. Hallucination.”

Wren bobbed and scooted just a little closer to Anri. They sounded cute, and she wanted to speak more with them. Maybe they were cute-- maybe they were capable-- maybe the four of them would form a merry band of adventurers and save the land from the failing flames--

“You’re unkindled then? Like us?” The little knight began again, turning towards Wren but speaking to Ernest. “We are quite aways on the road of sacrifices. Past this gateway is the crucifixion woods, and beyond that the swamp of Farron Woods where we should find the undead legion.” They bobbed their head as they gave direction. “But the path splits, and the road of sacrifices takes us to--”

“The cathedral of the deep!” Wren happily cut them off. “Where they stuck Aldrich! And we can… Ernie how  _ do  _ we get a Lord of Cinder to return to their throne?”

“Uh…” He balked. “Well… back in my day… we uh… we killed the Lords and tossed their souls into a bucket. You know. Lord vessel stuff.”

A noise that sounded somewhere between a sneeze and a laugh popped out of the silent knight beside Anri. Horace, who did not speak, had dropped his halberd into one hand and was gently shaking. Anri looked upon him and smiled. That smile filled their voice as they stifled their own giggle. What Ernest had said had not been that entertaining, but seeing Horace laugh… 

“We plan on killing him. He’s a monster, and he can’t be trusted to fulfil his duty. There is nothing to stop him from trying to consume the other Lords, and after what he’s done--” Horace laid a heavy cast iron hand upon Anri’s shoulder. They paused, becoming aware that they were shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey… kiddo…” Ernest’s voice shifted lower, calmer, gentle and warm. “It’s ok. There’s four of us on his tail. And this isn’t my first Lord slaying rodeo. You’re looking at a veteran of the first undead linking. Back in my day…” He leaned against the wall opposite Anri of Horace. “There were three of us, and two of them were from Astora. Oscar wore a set of armor just like yours-- Hold on.” He propped his sword and shield against the wall behind them and removed his side arm from its scabbard.

It was an artefact both Horace and Anri recognized. The sword itself was one of many, but the land it came from was no longer. The blade matched Anri’s detail for crafted detail, differing only in the wear and the name engraved upon it. Ernest didn’t know what to expect from showing them the blade, so when they simply stared at it, he shrugged and slipped it back into its place. 

“Oscar was my best friend.” He looked over the clearing. “We used to day dream about linking the flame and going back to his homeland…” Ernest sighed before looking back over the two knights and smiling. “You two have this covered, I think. I left a young woman behind at the shrine, and I am inclined to check on her. Wren,” he turned to his apprentice. “Don’t do anything too stupid while I’m gone.”

As Ernest moved to leave, Horace grabbed his shoulder. He couldn’t read the man’s face, but he handed him some sort of pamphlet. Ernest chuckled, then reached for his side pouch. The man had given him a covenant, but Ernest already swore himself to another. So he pulled a gleaming medal and placed it in the other knight’s hand.

“May the sun light your way, Horace. And you too, Anri.”


	10. Sorceries

Some time, time he could not keep track of, passed, and he decided that it was time to move on. The two of them had returned to the shrine after meeting with the wandering knights to deliver a divine tome to their resident nun. He’d given them space, of course, as young women should have space to share each other’s company.

Ernest searched for Wren, but he could not find her. He did, however, find Irina smiling peacefully skimming her fingers over the tome. “Oh, dear Champion!” His footsteps in the muck of the shrine sounded almost exactly as they had in the settlement’s prison. 

“Irina?” He frowned, his brows knitting in frustration at her chosen place. “What are you doing down here in the mud and water? Child, we just broke you out of a place like this. Why sit in the water and grime?” He knelt beside her, held out his hand, and snapped his finger so she could find it. “Come, girl. No reason to waste away like this.”

“Oh dear Champion… You are most kind, but you must understand that I do not deserve--”

“Fuck that. Come, child. No one, not even a failed firekeeper, deserves to sit in a cold muddy puddle.”

“But--”

“Up with you. We will at least get you something to sit on, even if you don’t want to be social. No charge of mine will sit in the muck and waste away.” She pouted, but eventually yielded and took his hand. “Where is Wren? Did she already run off on you?”

“Not at all, dear Champion. She went to find you…”

\---

Already some woman in a ridiculous hat had shot little painful magic darts at her. Absolute madwoman! She had no idea someone could cast sorceries with a pick! Between her, the giant crabs, the hollows dragging around literal trees, and the hollows still chained to crucifixes, she decided she very much hated the road of sacrifices. It quickly, much to her chagrin, became very clear that the crow-folk were not the sacrifices, and that the sacrifices were still mobile and very very dangerous.

The woman in the headdress still pursued her well through the water and past the crabs. Somehow the beasts didn’t seem to notice her, or if they did they did not care. Wren darted into the ruins of a stone building and pressed herself against the wall. A single hollow stood between her and a hallway forward that no doubt led deeper into the building. Cursing her luck and the sound of her steel, she slammed into the hollow with her shield and cut their undeath short. 

She bolted after the hollow fell. The floor was crumbling and uneven but otherwise sturdy. A crystal lizard startled when it heard her, and it bolted, running thoughtlessly in front of her. She caught it with her foot, kicking it into the far wall. “Shit! Sorry!” Her voice was strained, her breaths rapid with exertion. She was going to die. Some crazy woman was going to murder her, and Ernest would never know. 

Another hollow stood dozing in her way, but she didn’t stop. She pushed past it, nearly ran off where the floor crumbled away entirely, and curved to her right, following the hallway up a flight of stairs. She ran, sticking to it, and again nearly fell to a floor below. But this time the floor simply stopped. It was not broken. It was just the second story of a larger hall with an empty middle. “Shit! Shitshitshit!” She cursed and spun around ready for the woman to come after her. 

But… she didn’t.

“We have… an understanding.” A voice, a man she had not noticed, spoke without looking up from his work. He was a sorcerer, probably. Some sort of academic with a desk absolutely covered in scrolls and tomes. 

“Uh… What?” Wren lowered her guard and stepped over to him. 

“Heysel.” He turned the page of one such tome, the parchment lingering on his thumb. “The woman who hunts in the swamp. She’ll cut your tongue out if she catches you.” He waved a hand away from them vaguely away from where Wren had come. 

Wren stood there staring dumbly at him. “How… how can you be so flippant about that? A mad woman is… stealing  _ tongues?  _ Why doesn’t she come for yours? Why are you even here?”

He sighed, closed his eyes, and set his jaw. Looking upwards as if seeking guidance, he turned to Wren. His black wavy hair bounced with the motion, and Wren wondered if it looked greasy because he never bathed or if he put some sort of product in it. She was betting on the former. The rest of him seemed well groomed, so maybe it was a product… His skin was clean, his clothes were well maintained. Black did not conceal dirt as well as people claimed, but still his black smock-frock was tidy. 

“This is my  _ study  _ you have happened upon.” He glared, but Wren was unphased. “If you have no business with me--” 

“Why is she stealing tongues?”

“That’s… Ugh…” He ran a hand over his face before tucking both beneath his elbows. “That’s business between  _ you  _ and  _ her. _ ”

“Why doesn’t she steal  _ your  _ tongue?”

“I--” He paused, frustrated and simply wanting to get back to his reading. “If I tell you, will you go away?”

“No.” Wren stepped lightly over to him to look over his shoulder. “Probably not-- is this sorcery? Are you a sorcerer?” She pointed at the open tome.

“No… I just like reading  _ books.”  _ What kind of a stupid question was this girl asking--

“That’s why the madwoman doesn’t hunt you down? You’re a sorcerer?”

“How did you get here..?”

“Will you teach me sorcery? I mean. Enough to pass? I mean I know you sorcerers are a bunch of goddless heathens but--”

“ _ Careful. _ ”

“But…” She glanced down at the ground, summoned her sweetest puppy expression, and looked back at the man. “There’s a madwoman out there, and the first step to defending against something is understanding it… And my traveling companion would probably like to meet you. He likes bitter bastards like you.”

He tried to keep a straight face. He was largely successful. He sighed, his shoulders falling, his eyes closing, his resolve failing. 

“As you wish.” He startled as Wren bounced and pumped a fist. “I have much to share, but surely a champion such as yourself would not demand or request a service without recompense.” His cold glare slowed her victory. “In exchange for my service to you as a teacher, you will bring me knowledge. Most importantly, you will bring to me scrolls that detail sorcery’s secrets. Can you promise me this?”

Wren could have beamed like the morning sun. Already they’d found a divine tome for Irina. These things were practically littered about the land. “I absolutely can. And you are going to love Ernie, or at least he’s going to love you.”

“Good.” He turned back to his things and surveyed them. “You may be rash, but I trust you understand the weight of a promise.” 

“I sure do!” She caught him wincing at her enthusiasm, but it would not damper her mood. Ernest was going to be  _ so very pleased.  _ In fact, she would do as he often did. She stuck out her hand, practically in the man’s face. “I am Wren of Mirrah!”

The man stared at it briefly, thoroughly confused, but when she waved it in front of it he clasped her hand in his. “Orbeck of Vinheim…” 

\--

They set to work packing his study together. Two bodies made for easier travel than one, and the flame was some distance away. A familiar warm and monotone voice called through the woods. Wren jumped up, knocking scrolls out of Orbeck’s hands, and bounded to the edge of the stairs. “Ernie! Ernie Ernie Ernie!” Orbeck couldn’t help but compare her call to that of someone calling in the cattle, but he said nothing.

The two went back and forth, the warm voice calling and growing louder, the girl calling and remaining put, until the loud footsteps of a knight rounded the stone and mounted the stairs. He lifted Wren in a hug, and the woman laughed. 

“Ernie! Ernie this is Orbeck!” She said still caught in his embrace. She eventually lightly kicked his shin, and he set her back on her feet. He turned, warm and smiling, to greet her new friend.

What Ernest saw was not a man but a ghost. Hair like a raven’s feathers. Darkened attire. Golden gloves. The man met his gaze, a fierce gaze, a cold gaze, but Ernest did not quite see him as he was. He placed a hand on Wren’s shoulder, heart on his sleeve, and stepped forward.

“Griggs..?” He paused, jaw working as he thought. “No. No.” The knight shook his head. “Forgive me, I’ve been…” He glanced to Wren. “Seeing ghosts lately. One uncanny resemblance after another.” His face crinkled as he tried to hold back tears with a smile. It shifted more into a grimace, but Orbeck did not move. 

“You must be the much spoken of ‘Ernest’.” The sorcerer said with a nod. “Your companion has said much about you. I am hoping that you are capable of assisting us in the move to… Firelink Shrine, I believe she said.”

“Ernie,” Wren placed a free hand on his arm. “Orbeck is going to teach me some sorcery. We’ve just got to find him some scrolls and such to make it worth his while. You ok with that?”

“I.” His eyes were wide and glassy as he looked between the two of them. “Yes. Of course I am. I am Ernest the Devoted of Berenike.” He pressed his fist over his heart, and Wren’s mouth pursed in a pout. Of course he wouldn’t do the hand thing again. Of course he’d make her look like a fool in front of this sorcerer. It had  _ nothing  _ to do with the fact that Orbeck had no free hand. “It is good to meet you, Orbeck of Vinheim.”

“And you." Without missing a beat, he stepped forward and dropped the scrolls he was carrying into Ernest’s arms. “Now make yourself useful. I would like to be gone before Heysel realizes I’m leaving.”


	11. Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd Edition. Updated 4/18/2020

Ernest stepped out of the flame and blinked the smoke from his eyes. He had something, a stack of thick papers, to give to Irina. Wren had loudly lamented her inability to write Irina a letter she could read, and Irina had quietly mentioned her desire to record Ernest’s stories. He looked around him and took a deep breath, savoring the smell of cold damp stone. The Firekeeper leaned against the stairway, the old woman nodded off in her sleep, Andre hammered away across the hall, Ludleth sat perched on his throne, and Hawkwood--

Hawkwood was not in his spot. There was no tragic Hawkwood shaped figure sitting on the stairs watching the dwindling flame. Ernest looked around confused. His loose bun slipped and hung half done against the back of his neck, and while that would normally irritate him to the point of distraction, he was filled with a deep and intense fear.

When Laurentius had left the shrine, he’d found him hollow.

When Griggs had left the shrine, he’d never found him again.

When the nameless man had left… When that defeated man had left… 

“Hawkwood?” Ernest began to jog to the archway that lead to Irina. “Irina-- have you seen-- Wait. Hawkwood?!” Before she could answer him, Ernest had jogged to the other archway over another stray-- Yoel. “Yoel! Have you seen Hawkwood?” 

“No, my Lord. Who is Hawkwood? Which Ash is he?”

“The sad one. Wait... Nevermind!”

Greirat was off doing his thing; Ernest was familiar with him coming and going. Andre held out his hand, stopping Ernest from running past him to call to Orbeck and Cornyx. The knight stopped, panic running through his heart and through his eyes.

“Andre?”

“He didn’t come this way, lad. And this isn’t a prison. People aren’t trapped here. We come and go as we please. Some of us please to more than others.”

“ Andre-- ”

“Breathe, lad. Breathe.” The old smith turned back to his work. He placed the blade into the coals, heated it, then began to hammer on it once again. Each blow to the metal felt like a heartbeat. Each ring of steel felt like a steadying breath. Ernest brushed his hands against the steel tassets of his armor.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Ernest looked about them to Orbeck’s study along the wall and Cornyx’s nest on a small mound just out of the water. How they had both managed some semblance of normalcy in the shrine surrounded by old death and stone. “I just…” He looked back to Andre who’s warm eyes seemed to twinkle in the low light of his forge. 

“We’re free, aren’t we? Yer your own person. I am mine. And if ye never saw one of us again, it’d be no fault of yer own.” He reached a massive calloused hand out and laid it on Ernest’s shoulder. “Sit with me, cousin.”

For a moment, Ernest moved to sit beside the smith, but he paused and stepped back. “I can’t, Andre. I can’t be still. I. I’m going to.” Andre glared at him. “Just step outside. It’s too dark, too cold, too dead, too--” He curled in on himself, holding his arms and hunching as though he were expecting a blow. In a manner that did not befit a knight in armor, he scuttled out of the shrine and into the daylight.

The cold and the dark and the damp had grown overbearing. He felt he could hear the whispers of ages past. He could feel the judgement of the dead. The void weighed deeply upon him when he paused. He couldn’t pause. Just outside the shrine the bitter air and constant wind nipped at his face but kept him grounded. He took in the air, closed his eyes, and lifted his face towards the sun. Was it real? Was the sun even real anymore? He felt no warmth from it.

All around him stood distant mountains, cold and white with snow. He wondered for a moment if he was home, if these were the same mountains of his life. Perhaps, after all these years, he’d been brought home. Perhaps, after all these years, he was seeing Berenike again. Would he be able to recognize them after all this time? Could he find the old river in the folds of the earth? A moment’s breath, and he recalled almost dying in the bend. Fourteen. A squire and an idiot. How he’d missed the jump from the rocks, slipped, and cracked his ribs on the hidden stones below. How the cold water had shocked him with the pain, and how he couldn’t move. Water cradling, pulling him down, his breath drifting up to the light above.

And the peace in his near death. For a moment, the world was quiet. It was frozen and distant. The sky had become a fractured blue and green. Fish darting above him in lieu of birds. Then the warmth of life, his knight’s arms wrapped around him and hauling him up. His knight, The Restless, Maria the Restless of Berenike… Tearing him from the cold waters, berating him for his clumsiness, her chastisement hiding the fear in her eyes. 

He pulled himself from the memory and looked down the the paths from the shrine’s entrance. On the right stood crying hollows. While melancholy himself, Ernest had no desire to join them in their lamentations, so he turned to the left. There was a path through the graves there, and he found himself smiling at a sleeping dog. The creature was half rotted and thoroughly mummified, but its paws twitched in its sleep. He briefly thought about tossing it one of those skulls he often saw the wild dogs chewing on, but doing so would wake it. 

Every creature deserved rest where they could find it.

He kept walking, looking at the mountains as if he would find something meaningful in their shape. A road, perhaps. The hint of an old settlement or fort… Something to indicate life once lived among the snow. Perhaps a river. Perhaps even  _ his  _ river.

“ _ Poor wretched souls… _ ” 

“ _ Hawkwood… _ ” Ernest’s words came out in a whispered sigh, his shoulders fell, and his eyes briefly closed. Hawkwood’s words drifted like a murmur on the wind. He knelt with his head bowed by a tombstone, a great sword propped against it, and muttered. “Be they lord or legend, the curse shows no mercy. What a sham.” Ernest moved, standing nearer to him, wanting to reach out and confirm he was there, but he did nothing. He felt as though he was invading a private moment. Hawkwood let out a weak laugh, and lifted himself to his feet. “ What a sham. ”

“Hawkwood..?” Ernest said his name again with more strength and question behind it. Whispering like the wind in concern.

“Ernest.”

There was something tragically beautiful about Hawkwood. In the cold breeze his tattered cape fluttered. His eyes, frigid in their pale brown, matched the bitter sky and jagged mountains. They weren’t particularly striking against his skin, but in the moment, in the lighting, Ernest found himself lost in them. Like in the fractured sky below the current. 

“I… came out here to catch a breath,” the knight finally said. “Every time I step out here, it reminds me of home. Of Berenike.” He broke his gaze away and looked back to the horizon. “There was a great river that carved through our land and led to the neighboring kingdom of Balder. I thought, for a moment, that I might be home again, and if I could find that river, I would know.”

Hawkwood had nothing of his own to share, or he did not desire to share it. To share was to expose, and to do so was to be vulnerable. They stood there, quietly, unsure of how to proceed. Hawkwood adjusted his glove before looking down the path back to the shrine. He hadn’t been in any rush to return, but he hadn’t set out to share a quiet moment with ash he barely knew. Before he could make the decision to return to his place on the stairs, Ernest spoke again.

“I have seen many of my friends die, and uh. When you weren’t in the shrine… Well. Experience has taught me to expect the worst.” He sighed. “I don’t want you to die.” He ducked his head down and chewed on his lip still staring out to the horizon.

“I… don’t plan on it.” There was an odd weight to Ernest’s words. A strange burden of friendship he had never expected and a sensation akin to a blow. Hawkwood had done everything in his power to push the other unkindled away. He had been prickly, crass, taunting, and bitter. He had done nothing to court this man’s affection, and yet.

Finally the loose bun had tickled Ernest’s neck to the point of irritation. He pulled out the tie, his red hair briefly flowing free, and tied it back more firmly than before. He stood a little straighter, shoulders squared, and looked back over the horizon. 

“Good.” A small smile fell on his lips. “We’re not in Berenike, by the way. I don’t know these mountains. And there is no river. And Hawkwood?”

“Hm?”

“You won’t go hollow on me.”

“No. No I won’t.” He didn’t think he could or else he would have long ago.

“Good. Good.” Ernest looked back to the small monument then to Hawkwood-- his cold and distant expression striking him again like a hammer on thick winter ice. “I uh…” He was staring. “I didn’t mean to uh…” Almost drowning in the river. “You’re uh…” All the years of his life learning to hold his breath and sink, to control that dive and harness it. To survive it and thrive in it. Familiar beauty in unexpected places. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He lifted his arm across his chest and pointed down the path. “I’m gonna… go now.”

He left walking backwards at first, watching Hawkwood for just a moment more, trying to place the reason for the connection between the river and the man. He stumbled away to a lonesome place outside the shrine proper, but no reason came to him. As for Hawkwood, he remained by the grave of his friend. A person he had never known. Of all the exchanges he had had before, an expression of friendship followed with fear and disorientation left him confused and almost disappointed. 


	12. With Love

Wren sat next to Orbeck with a small sheet of parchment before her. In her youth she had been fond of drawing, but the materials used for art and writing were expensive. She had to learn how to make her own, and fortunately for her the knowledge was freely given in Mirrah. The sorcerer knew how to make his own ink, but the scrolls he had were largely looted from the Cathedral down the way. “What do you plan on doing with that?” His voice was even. Bored. He didn’t look up from his own work.

“There’s a girl,” she started with a lilt in her voice. Her face flushed as she thought about Irina, about her soft face and sweet voice. Her gentle soul. Orbeck scoffed.

“I don’t know what I expected.” When Wren turned to glare at him, she saw the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He held his knuckle to his chin as he looked over the scroll he studied, but he seemed almost softer. “But it wasn’t love letters.” He raised his finger before staring off (continuing to avoid eye contact) and saying, “but I’m going to have to charge you more for the parchment--” “What?!” “Love letters aren’t very productive, and if you are using my supplies for something other than your education, you have to pay for them in their entirety.”

She stared at him, frustrated at the new demand. “But I can make you crayons. I showed you how to make crayons. With charcoal and clay. That’s easier than your ink.” It wasn’t that his demand was unfair. It was that it was sudden and not what she had initially agreed to. Souls were not difficult for her to come across, but she didn’t want to do  _ business  _ with someone who changed the terms on a whim. “And parchment is limited. You’ll just have to make each word count.” Wren’s lips pursed as she pouted, but she chuffed and relented. “Fine.”

With new found expense to make each word more valuable, she began to think on what to write. Initially she had planned on writing to her with great frequency. She’d narrate the adventures she had with Ernest and commit them to parchment so that Irina could experience them second hand again and again. The poor girl had her own adventures, no doubt, but she never spoke of them. She only mentioned her past with a great sadness and overwhelming sense of failure. Wren wanted to give her something light. But she didn’t know how much Orbeck valued the parchment at, and already she was paying him what felt to her a great expense. She had no idea what Ernest would think about it. She’d seen him trade a few souls here and there for things they actually needed, but he seemed to have everything he already needed… Would he chide her for this?

She decided she didn’t care. Ernest was her mentor, and she followed him along, but he wasn’t her dad. His opinion on her spending habits, especially in the manner of  _ love,  _ did not matter. Nodding, satisfied, she began to brainstorm. Irina was a nun, someone who had wanted to be a firekeeper but didn’t make it… Would she like imagery of light and fire? Would metaphors about the heat of a crush hurt her? Would they remind her of what she wasn’t? Maybe it’d be best to stick to the softness of her voice and hands… 

“Hey Orbeck..?” A noncommittal grunt. “Have you ever been in love? Or written a love letter at least?” She watched him as he closed his eyes and pulled his lips back into a tight line. He took a deep breath, looked above him, and let it out. “I can’t remember. But I doubt it. My work in life did not leave much time for social endeavours.”  _ I can see that,  _ she thought with a flat expression on her face. “Well,” she began as she tried to fish something from him. “If you were going to court someone, and you wanted to make it count… what would you do?” It seemed to her that the thought had never crossed his mind. His eyes widened and his brows furrowed as he thought it over. “That… that would depend… I would try to get to know this hypothetical person first. What sort of things would be useful to him? If he’s another academic, then I would share my research without the expectation of compensation. That’s… all I really have to give.”

“You wouldn’t try to woo him with words?” She didn’t know what she’d expected.

“Words have never been my strong suit.” He looked back at his scrolls, his sudden wide-eyed thought fading back into his bored glare. He almost looked disappointed. “What if someone were trying to woo you?” Wren knew what she would like in a letter, but she wasn’t Irina. She might be able to pull something out of this yet. “A letter would be a waste of parchment.” Her jaw fell, and she glared at him. 

“Ugh! Fine! Some help you are! No wonder you didn’t have anyone!” She caught herself before calling him a ‘loveless jerk’ but he still shot her a glare, paused in thought, nodded, shrugged, and went back to work. Wren had gotten so worked up over Orbeck’s absolute inability to court someone and to recognize courtship, she’d almost lost sight of what she was doing. 

In her fury, she began to write whatever came to mind first.

_ Irina, _

_ I came from a land where anyone with skill and determination could elevate themselves to knighthood. In Carim, a knight swears themself to a Lady, but in Mirrah we swore ourselves to our lords and our lands. My lord and my land is gone now, but if you would have another knight serve you… _

She paused. This didn’t sound like a love letter at all. It sounded like a formal request. She couldn’t erase the ink, but she could still fix this.

_ … I don’t serve out of obligation. I served my homeland out of love. When you called out, and when I wrapped my arms around you, holding you, I knew there was something deeply precious about you. You are kind, you are gentle, you are soft, and it makes my heart beat faster, flitting about like a bird in a cage. I find myself thinking of you as we wander these lands. Embers keep us closer to the flame, but thoughts of you keep me warm-- _

Oh no. She was beginning to sound too much like the bards who sung the flirtations of lords and ladies. But.. that’s what she was doing, wasn’t it? Singing the praises and adorations to a lady through written word? That was exactly right, and it wouldn’t hurt to be a bit flowery.

_ I came to in this land with only the vaguest of purposes. My only goal was to rekindle the flame without a plan--- _

The loud footsteps of a particular knight took Wren from her writing. She jumped, excited, as Ernest would no doubt know how to write a love letter. He was warm! He was open! He had undoubtedly had partners before! “Ernie!” She ran to the doorway and caught him as he came to collect her. “Ernie I need help!” His gentle baffled look from her enthusiasm shifted as he processed her plea into that of a defensive anger. He drew his sword and began to push past her to face whatever danger it was, but she stood firmly in his way still beaming. “Ernie I need help writing a letter!”

Relieved, he deflated. “Oh yeah? Orbeck isn’t holding you hostage or anything?” A loud scoff came from behind the girl. “Ernie,” she stepped back to let him through. “Have you ever been in love? Orbeck over here is a cold--” 

“Yes.”

“You have?! I knew it!” She beamed. “I’m trying to court someone, a girl, and I’m writing her a letter--” Ernest stared into the distance as he thought of his two lovers. His hand moved to the hilt of his side arm. “And I need help with ideas. If you were writing them for the first time, what would you have said?” 

“Huh?” He snapped to and looked back up at the girl. “Oh uh. Well. I met both of them in quite dire circumstances. I first met Oscar when he arrived bloodied and dying. I patched him up physically, and he gave me the strength to keep going. I decided I’d see it through to whatever end with him… And Solaire I met first while I was going hollow. But I don’t know. I can’t imagine writing to them as if I weren’t already hopelessly in love with them and them with me.” Wren could have melted at the soft expression he wore. His eyes seemed to sparkle, the creases in his forehead relaxed, he smiled peacefully, and the weight on his shoulders seemed to lessen. When he spoke, his voice was soft and affectionate. “Who are you writing to?”

“Irina.”

It was like a crack had splintered through glass. His lips quivered between laughter and pity. He tried not to laugh, but he bent down and put his face in his hand. “Wren…” She had balled her hands into fists, angered at his dismissal. “Wren… Irina is blind.” Orbeck snorted. Wren had no idea how to react to this. Irina  _ was  _ blind. And Wren knew it. So caught up had she been in doing something lasting for her flame, she’d forgotten something so important and obvious. “Ernie it’s not funny!” Her voice cracked. Nothing else mattered to her beyond the present, and the present was miserable. She’d already written a letter-- wasted the parchment by Orbeck’s standards, and now both men were laughing at her. The loveless jerk and her mentor… laughing at her for wanting to show affection.

“No, it’s not funny.” Ernest ran his hand down his face and grabbed at his beard. “It’s cruel irony, and sometimes all we can do is laugh about it. Look, Wren...” Her look of pained betrayal stung. Tears glinted in her eyes. “They uh… have to write in braille somehow, right?” He reached to put a hand on her shoulder, but she moved away. “We’ll ask Irina to teach you, ok? Then you can surprise her. And uh. Spend more time with her. Right?”

She glared down at the ground in shame. Ernest was right, but he’d still laughed at her. “Yeah…” He recognized the hurt and knew his own humiliation would help. It would put them on equal footing again. “Well, if you think writing a heartfelt letter is bad, let me tell you about how long it took for Oscar and me to figure out we were flirting with each other…”

Wren zoned out after a while. Hearing Ernest grow warm and soft and act like a doofus was precious, but he just started to say the same things over and over. Solaire was warm, Oscar was bright, he loved them… It was sweet how he curled in on himself like a child being asked about a crush, and it was sweet how he made himself blush, but he began to repeat himself immediately after the first story. He told the same story about stripping and jumping twice to win a bet with Oscar, and Wren genuinely didn’t know if he realized it or not.

“Solaire had no idea, you know!” “Mhm.” “Even said ‘if I didn’t know any better’--” “Uh huh…”

She nodded along, her fluster lost in mild irritation as they slowly carried all of Orbeck’s studio to the shrine. The mage wisely hung back to carry the more delicate items rather than risk Ernest’s dancing chatter. The desk would stay as would most of the shelves. For some unfathomable reason Ernest insisted on trying to carry as many shelves as possible at once, and that made Orbeck rightfully worried. Wren felt the need to compete, but she also knew Irina wouldn’t be able to actually  _ see  _ her carrying all of the shelves, so she decided to bear more reasonable loads. 

It was only after they’d carried the last stack of scrolls and last piece of equipment did Wren remember a miracle that would have bypassed the need to travel through the Flame at all. The entire time she could have simply spoken the Homeward Prayer and done this in one trip.

She decided to keep that to herself. 

Irina sat just above the muck on some dry dirt, but she still remained in the miserable cold. Wren popped around the opening above her, looked down, and frowned. “Irina? Why’re you in the mud?” “It is a place befitting one such as--” Wren dropped down, mud splattering on her boots, and tramped over to her companion. She delicately lifted Irina’s hand and knelt beside her in the soft moist dirt. 

“If it’s what befits you, then it’s what befits me.” Before Irina could protest, Wren plopped next to her. “Dear Champion…” Irina’s hand gently clasped Wren’s. “I don’t understand…” Wren squeezed her hand before scooting closer. “I think I do,” she began. “You feel terrible, like a failure, like you’re never going to be enough, so you treat yourself like you’re terrible, a failure, like you’ll never be enough. And maybe someone you looked up to makes it even worse. Someone who think or thought was your rock. Someone you only want to make proud…” Irina’s grip grew limp as Wren spoke. “Maybe they were family. Maybe a close friend. A teacher. Well I won’t be the person who makes it worse. I don’t want you to determine your value by what I think of you or how I act, but I-- I want you to see how I treat myself, how I value myself, and I want you to know that being kind to yourself is good and necessary.” She took a steadying breath. “And Irina? I want you to realize that if I shouldn’t be sitting in the mud, neither should you. And if sitting in the mud with the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen is what it takes, well that’s not so hard for me at all. Though… I’d rather sit with you next to the fire…”

When Wren finished her little speech, she turned to see Irina crying. Even with tears running down her cheeks, she was so quiet. She suddenly leaned heavily against Wren and began to tremble ever so slightly. Wren hadn’t meant to make her cry-- she’d meant to inspire a fire not hurt her. She wrapped an arm around Irina’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Let me be kind to you,” she murmured as she rested her head on Irina’s. “Let yourself be kind to yourself…”

Irina’s silent tears and gentle trembles eventually became audible sobs and shaking shoulders. She clung to Wren’s arms and held tightly to her. All Wren really knew how to do was to stroke her head like and to hold her in a warm hug. They sat together in the mud. Irina quietly cried and Wren softly petted her head. The muck of the shrine wasn’t like the mud of the swamp, Wren noticed. It was cold. It was cold and sharp. But in her arms, Irina was warm. When Irina slowly pulled away, Wren felt like shivering, but the look of resolve on the nun’s face pushed away the chill.

Her eyes were puffy and red. Her mouth set into a frown. Her brows knotted in thought. “Dear Champion…” Her voice trembled. “If you insist on serving my penance with me…” She felt for Wren’s hand and took it. “Then I will make my penance useful to you. If that is sitting in the warmth of the Flame that I failed, then I will do it. But I will not allow you to dote like this. Show me, Wren. My… My champion. How can I be useful to you?”

Wren began to stand, and Irina stood with her. Their hands together. Wren pressed Irina’s hands in her own and said, “Irina… You don’t have to be useful. You don’t have to work at it. Just thinking about you makes me feel warm. Thinking about you hurting like this hurts me. But,” she paused as Irina’s lip twitched towards a frown. “If you insist on being useful… Will you teach me to write and read braille? I want to be a part of your world, and I want you to be a part of mine. I want to write you letters, I want to write you soft things, I want to read the stories you read, I want to read the words you write.” Irina’s face shifted from discomfort to confusion to awe. As she began to smile, Wren lifted Irina’s hands to her lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Will you do that for me?”

There was a moment that hung in the air. A moment where Irina’s mouth simply parted and no words came out. A small squeak escaped her as she processed what Wren had said and done, and she blushed. 

“Of course, my sweet champion.”

  
  



	13. Old Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2nd edition

Orbeck stood at the bonfire as his two new patrons set out. “I do not believe that Aldrich is still in the Cathedral,” he said with arms crossed. “If he were, I doubt that I would have been able to secure as many resources as I had. One of the crystal sages still guards the road though they are far from human anymore. Be careful in how you deal with them. They wield duplicitous magic.” Wren beamed at him. She bounced on her toes while her knight looked mournfully into the flame. “Don’t worry, Orbie!” “Don’t call me that.” “We’ll be fine!”

Ernest watched their back and forth briefly before stepping into the Flame and letting it wrap around him. It nipped and bit at his feet at first, but as it engulfed him the air around him turned to golden mist. There was always a great pressure like he was about to be crushed right before it spat him out wherever he had willed himself to go. He stood overlooking the swamp from before and waited for Wren to join him. She hopped next to him as if the Flame had done nothing to her then beamed upwards at him. He knew she’d spent a little more time with Irina, and she seemed all the happier for it.

A little time with someone you loved could make all the difference.

Returning her smile, he began to head towards Orbeck’s previous study. They were careful to avoid the many crabs that lived in the waters. He’d never actually seen a crab before, and their horrifying chitinous bodies were the stuff of nightmares. The barnacles that adorned their shells, the algae that dangled from their pincers… their collection of eggs on their underbellies… The monstrous beasts were the size of his chest, and when he cracked them under his boot or sword-- he shook himself from the gruesome image. Wren seemed to have no such issues. 

But far worse than the common crabs were their giant counterparts. Ernest couldn’t escape seeing the eggs clustered on their stomachs or the disgusting accumulation of barnacles on the crabs that were larger than himself. The giant crabs, the true stuff of his nightmares, were the size of a large house. They could no doubt lift him in one pincer and crush him. He watched them spittle out bubbles and spray those thick bubbles at their prey.

Wren watched out for those. They didn’t bother her much.

The rotting hollows that meandered in the ruins beneath Orbeck’s former study were a welcome sight for Ernest. Sure they represented what would become of all of them-- a mindless starved corpse desperate for souls-- but they didn’t trigger some deep seated revulsion. He was almost  _ happy  _ to cut them down. Almost. He looked up from the path they followed to Orbeck’s old study. He could only really see an empty shelf that the mage had chosen to leave behind. 

Wren continued her jaunt up the path. She hopped from paving stone to paving stone while Ernest trudged forward. Somehow they never encountered the mage Orbeck warned them of. In fact, the entire path to the cathedral was eerily quiet. Wren stopped her light hearted hopping after the first corpse she encountered. Ernest looked down at the body of a shaggy dog. It was torn in several places beyond just the primary gash. The corpses that followed shared the same wound pattern again and again. A primary slash, a brutal stab wound, multiple cuts of varying depths scattered in clusters around the body. 

Their steps were muted as they reached the cathedral’s first doors. The large and dark double doors to what seemed to be a back entrance were slightly ajar. They led to a small chapel with chairs lined in rows before an altar soaked in blood. Before the altar someone had plunged a sword into bones lighting a bonfire. There were two doors on either side of the altar, both ajar. “Do you think this was Orbeck..?” Wren whispered. “No,” Ernest responded. “I don’t think he could have been so brutal.” He looked over Wren and wished she had stouter armor. She wore a plate chestpiece, but her arms were largely covered in padded cloth. Whatever or whoever was inflicting those wounds would tear right through it. “Wren,” he whispered to her. “When we encounter whatever’s causing that, let me take the hits. You just lay on the lightning. Got it?”

She nodded before they headed through the door to their left. It led past a tightly shut set of double doors through an outer path within the cathedral. The spires and building cast a deep shadow over the cold stone, so much so that Wren might have thought it was night if she didn’t look up to the sky. Ernest kept his eyes forward, but Wren glanced around them. Her gaze fell upon a creature in a courtyard below them that made her stomach turn. At first it looked like a ghost had burst from a body, but that ‘ghost’ was made of something very living. She paled.

The air seemed to change as they stepped into the cathedral propper. Red carpet lined the stairs as they climbed upwards in the dimly lit hallway. Then the smell hit. Ernest lurched as it reached him. The scent of death, decay, and sewage. Wren audibly gagged before pressing her hand to her nose and mouth. Ernest’s eyes watered as he forced himself to acclimate to the stench. When they reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner, they found the source of it.

The grand foyer of the cathedral was filled waist high with water so filthy it had turned black. If it had ever been water to begin with. Wren balked at the dark sludge when suddenly Ernest grabbed her and shoved her behind him. “There he is, Wren. Remember the lightning. If he turns on us, you hit him with everything.” There was a heavy remorse in Ernest’s voice. A deep regret that Wren didn’t understand. One she likely never would.

Across the way Ernest saw him. Kirk, Knight of Thorns. The man in twisted barbed armor that had stood between him, Oscar, and the remnants of the Chaos Witches. They had sought the same goal-- to bring relief to the Fair Lady-- but where Ernest sought to bring an end to the age of fire, Kirk had tried and failed to stop him at every turn to put down the Bed of Chaos. Three times they had fought. Three times Kirk’s projection had failed under Oscar and Ernest’s lightning. 

This was not the man’s phantom. This was the man. Ernest wondered if he’d recognize him. If he did, would he see him for a fellow who had only fought to help, or would he see him for the man who took away everything?

Kirk turned when he heard their footsteps. His expression was hidden beneath his cage like helmet, but his body stiffened. Even at great distance Ernest could see him ready himself for a fight. He screamed like a wounded animal as he charged the pair. Wren’s hand crackled with lightning as she waited for Ernest to move, but the knight held still. Here was a man who truly hated him. It was not jealousy. It was not apathetic disdain. It was hatred. Ernest had taken everything from him. He’d killed the first sister, then the brother, and the rest of the family save for two systematically. Methodically. Slowly. He had to. The Bed of Chaos-- the remnants of a family-- had to be put down. And each time Ernest and Oscar had made sure to put him down. They had made sure that this twisted knight was powerless. He’d only been protecting.

He was frozen in place with the weight of his guilt. The knight of thorns darted towards them, but Ernest did nothing. Wren, hand overflowing with lightning, kicked out the back of Ernest’s knees and forced him down before flinging her lightning spear over his head. It plunged into the knight’s armor, impaling him briefly, then sunk into the water and dissipated. “ _ You! Monsters! Both of you…”  _ He struggled, stumbled, and tried to right himself before Wren drew another miracle and struck him with it. He collapsed to his knees burned and wounded still in the filth of the cathedral. 

Ernest stood, still in a trance, and walked to him. He didn’t balk at the filth. He didn’t seem to notice how it slowed him down. Kirk grabbed at him as Ernest knelt beside him. He would have pulled him close and gouged out his eyes and throat if he could, but Ernest held firmly in place. “Quelana,” he whispered to the broken knight. “Begged us to give them peace. Quelaag-- I didn’t know… I just knew I needed to reach the bell… I’m sorry…” He made a small flame in his hand and held it out to the broken man. Kirk trembled in pain as he watched the familiar flame. His own burned just the same. He reached out and grabbed Ernest’s arm.

“You killed them.” He hissed. “You knew who they were and you killed them. How could you?” His grip tightened with hatred. “The only son, Quelaag, the family-- who was even left when you finished your job?” Ernest hid his flame as Kirk spat at him.

“Quelana and Quelaan.” He stood and looked down on the knight. “I trust your heart, Kirk.” He backed away. “If I see you again, I’ll walk away. I won’t take anyone else from you, ever again.” Kirk watched helplessly as the man and the girl marched past him. He hated them. He hated that man, but he wouldn’t be able to protect Rosaria in the mud. He would be damned if he let them near her. The moment they weren’t looking, he snapped a homeward bone.

The encounter did not sit well with Ernest. His mind was in another place as they marched through the mud. He didn’t seem to register the sludge monsters or the giant they darted around. He didn’t seem to notice the following hollows or the elevator that Wren had somehow led him to. They stepped off of it before heading to a large set of double doors. They were more akin to barn doors than something that should be in a cathedral, and yet they were easy enough to push open. Ernest turned to overlook the inside of the cathedral with the light the doors let in. The grand foyer was massive and disgusting. It was larger than any farm he’d seen in Berenike, and it was filled with muck. Leaning on the railing of the balcony that overlooked the foyer was a man in Catarinan armor. Wren recognized the armor from Ernest’s description of Siegward, and so she immediately lit up. She tugged on Ernie, but he resisted. He didn’t know this man.

“Oh ho!” The knight, his voice entirely wrong, greeted them. Wren would never have known, but the doubtful expression on Ernest’s face dampened her excitement. “Two seekers of treasure have come to join me?” Ernest’s brows knitted in thought. He was sure he recognized that voice.

“The only treasure we seek is the return of the lords to their thrones!” She raised a fist in the air as she proclaimed her pure intentions. She was the sort of character Ernest would have heard about in stories as a child. It was times like this he couldn’t believe she was real. “I’m Wren of Mirrah! And this is Ernest of Berenike!” She knocked her knuckles against his breastplate. “Who are you?”

“Oh me? I’m no one. Just a knight of Catarina and a seeker of treasure. Though… I’ve encountered a problem. You see I’m in quite a pickle…” 

“Are you now.” Ernest’s voice, typically devoid of tone, was particularly flat.

“Oh? Oh yes. I’ve located the Cathedral’s treasure. Right over there, across that narrow part but… Hmmm… Treasure. So close and yet so far away… I’m afraid I’ll tumble right off! Ho ho!”

Ernest, shorter than the ‘knight’ leaned upwards close to his face. After Kirk, he was not in the mood for this. “Take off your helmet.”

“Oh?! What? Why?”

“So when I break your jaw, I don’t dent the metal. Now if you make me tell you again. I’ll take it off for you.”

His eyes burned through the slits in the Catarina helmet. Patches knew that face. He knew that hair and beard. He knew that monotone voice. He knew from the moment he heard the man’s name that he wouldn’t be able to pull off this scam.

“Ernest, what are you doing?” Wren had seen Ernest furious once thus far, and only with Eygon. Patches looked to the girl for help, but her soft confusion was useless to him.

“I don’t-- I don’t know-- Damn it!” His voice cracked, and he jumped backwards from Ernest. “Damn it damn it damn it! Why’d it have to be you?”

**“Where’s Siegmeyer?!”** Ernest grabbed him by the shoulders hard enough for the metal to bend. 

“Siegmeyer-- who’s Sieg-- you mean that stupid oaf of an onion?” Patches tried to squirm away, but Ernest shoved him against the wall.

“Who’s Siegmeyer?”

Ernest tackled Patches, knocking him down and quickly straddling him trying to tear off the helmet. “Where is he?! What have you done to him?!”

“You mean Siegward?” Wren leaned around watching Ernest pry and scratch like an animal at the imposter’s helmet.

“Get off of me! Get off of me! Get off and I’ll tell you!”

In his sudden rage, Ernest landed a hard blow to the helmet, denting it, before Wren kicked away the claymore the imposter carried and pulled Ernest back like she would a dog by its collar. Patches screamed, scrambling backwards.

“He’s fine! He’s fine! I just kicked him down a well! Stupid onion set himself up for it!”

There was a moment where Ernest looked like he might literally catch fire and blaze. But he was simply a very livid human being with the source of his greatest ire both past and present in front of him. Wren figured out quickly how much of a threat this man must be, and she soon backed Ernest up in cornering him. 

“Give me his armor.”

“What?”

“Give me his armor!” Ernest bellowed, and for a moment even Wren was afraid of him. “I don’t care if you have to strip naked. You either hand over his armor and his gear right now! Or I kill you and I take it back. Your choice, Trusty Patches. You rat bastard. I won’t make your death a clean one.”

“Unbreakable! I’m unbreakable! I’ve survived all these eras, and I’m not going to let some stupid unkindled--” Patches began to removed the armor, a terrifying realization dawning on him. He’d seen that knight disappear with the serpent. 

Patches dropped the armor in Wren’s hands, glaring at Ernest. “If you’re here… Where’s that Astoran knight that used to follow at your heels? Finally replace him? Ah. Well--”

He didn’t get to finish. Ernest slammed his fist in Patches’ cheek, bone crunching beneath his armored knuckles.


	14. The Man in the Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd edition: 9/3/2020

“Ernie?” Wren watched her mentor as he delicately wrapped the stolen and now dented armor in canvas. “Why don’t you just take it back to the shrine? Have Andre watch it or something? I bet he’d even fix it for you…” He was oddly quiet after his outburst, and a part of Wren didn’t expect him to answer. He was being weird. He was weird like this when they met Anri and Horace and again when he met Orbeck. It almost felt to her like he was burying someone.

“And what do we do when we run into Siegward? He’ll need his armor.” His voice was steady and even as though what he said was the most logical thing in the world. But that didn’t change the fact that he was carrying a bag of heavy armor that clanked like a child playing with the kitchen pans. Wren sighed and rolled her eyes before turning to look out over the balcony. Patches had booked it across what she thought was a structural support, but after he reached the end it sank into the floor. Maybe it was like a lock for water or something, but she didn’t really care. 

As she looked down, she realized that the sewage pool beneath them was once the cathedral’s grand foyer. A congregation would have amassed there, and-- She shuddered to think about it. Aldrich  _ ate  _ people… The road of sacrifices led to here… And if that was the remnants of the sacrifices, what the hell did Aldrich look like?

Further from the entrance at the back of the cathedral was a raised area for the congregation. Or at least those who were left. She hadn’t noticed it before, but behind the altar was a massive broken statue, and from this angle she could see a pathway leading down. Wren reached out idly to poke Ernest’s helmet. “You done Ernie? I see what’s next.”

Ernest hefted the bag onto his back and nodded. They returned the way they came, but when they stepped off of the elevator there was nothing left of the congregation. Ernest always had his sword at the ready, but he suspected anyone who fought the congregation was a friend of theirs.

The first thing he heard as they rounded the corner of the altar was an affirming grunt. A “hmm hmm.” Followed by a familiar if slightly masculine voice. “I can’t believe it, Horace.” Their words were filled with frustration yet tinged with relief. Ernest and Wren turned down the hall behind the statue to see a familiar knight and their familiar friend slumped by the wall. Wren grabbed Ernest as he lurched. This time he would let Wren lead the conversation.

Anri didn’t bother to stand when they saw Ernest and Wren. They were tired, and despite his awkwardness, Ernest meant them no harm. And Wren could very easily be their friend. “Come to seek Aldrich?” Their voice wavered on the border between masculine and feminine. “Well the man-eater isn’t here. The coffin is empty with naught but this little doll within it.” 

“A doll? That’s kinda…” Wren dropped down next to Anri to give them someone to fume with.

“Odd?” Anri finished for her. They lifted a strange doll from their pack, though it was less of a doll and more of a figure. “Listen.” Wren took the figure from their hand and lifted it to her ear like a seashell only to startle when she heard a soft voice.

_ Wherever you go, the moon still sets in Irithyll. Wherever you may be, Irithyll is your home. _

“What the… Ernie!” She turned, her helmet’s visor shutting with the momentum, and waved over her distanced companion. He slunk over like a chastised dog feeling awkward around the other knight (who was not Oscar, he had to keep reminding himself), then took the doll in his hands. 

“Huh.” It was a little knight-- probably a squire really-- with a helmet seemingly wrapped in cloth. The figure held some sort of two handed sword, though it was more likely a longsword in the hands of a child, but most curious was the crescent moon attached to the back that framed the head like a large halo. It had the intricate weaving pattern he’d long come to associate with the Gwyndolin’s holy knights. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything with this motif. Either of you two familiar with the Dark Moon?” Horace grunted before reaching out to take the doll back. And when Ernest dropped it in his hand, he quickly stuck it back in the bag by Anri. 

“Not… directly.” They started. “We belong to the Blue Sentinels, and our covenant is marked by a moon and sword, but in our travels we have met another who swears by the moon. Perhaps she will know better than we do. When we next encounter her, I shall ask for you.” They stood suddenly, glared back at the hall behind them, squared their shoulders, and began to leave the way they had come. “I’m not staying here. Not in this pit of rot and despair-- especially not while that beast still roams free. I do not yet know how to reach Irithyll, but I know someone who might have a lead. Perhaps,” they looked at Wren. “We’ll see you in Firelink Shrine sometime.” 

“Wha--? Oh! Yeah!” She flipped up her visor to better match their gaze before snapping her fingers and pointing in their direction. “I’ll see you later, handsome!” She nervously laughed while Anri returned the gesture. Horace huffed, and the two began the trek back to the shrine. Then once they were out of sight Wren turned to Ernest and whispered, “Ernie what do I do?”

“Huh?” He cocked his head. “Write them a love letter and tell Orbeck to shove it?”

“No, I mean… I don’t actually want to lead them on or…” She pulled on her fingers until her knuckles popped. “Was that flirting? Were they flirting? I--” Ernest flipped her visor shut.

“Wren, you’re overthinking it.” She popped it back up with a glare. “And trust me, your nervous laugh was enough. Although…” He paused and ran a hand through his beard. “I suspect you might be the only unkindled out there actually looking for romance…”

As they left and meandered through all of the sewage and thin hallways, the absurdity of it all dawn on Wren. The casket within the last room was massive-- it was larger than most buildings even. It was larger than any of the buildings, homes or windmills, in the previous town. Either Aldrich was as large as that casket and very  _ malleable  _ or he was small enough to fit through the doors. But if he was just small enough for the largest doors, how would he actually travel? Would he pool in a carriage? Would he inch like a grub? Roll? By the time they were out of the cathedral, her fuming had boiled over.

“Are you serious? All this work, all that slogging through corpse water, and that bloated bastard isn’t even here?! How do you even cart a mass of sludge?! Do they leave bits of him behind? Where’s the slime trail?” Wren stomped out the front of the cleansing chapel. She whipped around to face Ernest, his damn bag of armor felt like a hammer whaling on her head. She raised her hands as if she could choke the air. Not only had they walked through shit and muck, not only had Aldrich not even been there,  _ not only  _ had they dealt with two vicious unkindled, Ernest insisted on carrying that noisey bag instead of just dropping it off at the shrine with Andre.

And then who would they have to talk to when they did manage to get back to the shrine? Hawkwood. He was bitter and mean, and that was enough to make Wren dislike him, but he had a very colorful way of describing things. Maybe in a kinder world he could have been a writer, but that didn’t change the fact that he liked to use his mastery of the language to make Wren’s guts churn.  _ “Bloated like a drowned pig then softened into sludge” _ \-- Ernest had seemed unphased, but it would have been enough to say something like-- like-- Wren kicked at a rock, cursing loudly when it was heavier than she thought. 

“Hullo?!” A deep voice resonated from their right. Ernest turned, expecting to see someone, but there was no one. Nothing but the praying hollows, the rock face, the road leading out, and a well. “Is anyone there?!” It was a warm voice, and it seemed to wash over Ernest like estus from the Flame.

“Great! After everything else, the well is haunted too! I hate this place!” Wren grabbed at the grass and chucked a muddy handful at the door behind them. “Of course it’s haunted! I bet it’s all made of people too!”

“Wren. Wren stop. Wren the well isn’t haunted.” Ernest chuckled, finally ready for some good news, and bent over the opening of the well. The pack he carried banged about, and Wren glared knives into his back. “Yes?” He called down. “We hear you? What are you--”

“Oh! Ernest! It’s been some time now!” Wren’s mouth fell open first in surprise and then in relief. The ‘ghost’ knew him. Ernest turned to her with a bright smile and a wink.

“Yes, Siegward. It has. You uh. You need help out of there?” He leaned one elbow on the edge of the well and rested his head in his hand.

“Siegward!?” Wren bounced over to join Ernest, but she couldn’t see the man at the bottom. “You’re Siegward? The Siegward?”

“Oh. Oh dear me. Just what have you been saying about me? And who is the owner of that lovely voice?”

“Wren! Wren of Mirrah. Herald of the Way of White, at your service.”

“I’ve mostly been telling my companion here about how incredibly skilled you are but… It seems you’re in a bit of a bind.”

“It is wonderful to meet you, Wren of Mirrah. And a bit of a bind? I am in quite a pickle my friend! Someone’s swiped my armor! I can’t get out without my trusty armor…”

“Why not?” Wren bobbed around trying to see. “Why would your armor get you out? Don’t you need a rope? Or do you plan on climbing?” Ernest reached across the well to put a hand on her face but missed and flailed at her shoulder instead. 

“I’ve got your armor, actually,” Ernest began to run a finger in circles on the stone. “I had a run in with the bastard who stole it. I’ve met him before, in a past life… I’m glad to hear you safe.”

“Oh?! Oh toss it down to me!”

Wren watched Ernest, wide-eyed and excited as he hefted the bag over his shoulder. Would she finally get to actually meet the Siegward of Catarina? The man who had fought with Ernest to take down a demon? The man who instantly softened Ernest’s already soft face and made him look like a young man in love? 

What she didn’t see was Ernest slipping a homeward bone into the sack. He called down, “In coming!” Before letting it drop down. It hit with a hollow splash, a series of bangs, and a relieved cheer. “Ah! My armor! Oh you are a saint, you are! Oh..?” Wren bounced, waiting to learn how they’d fish him out. “Oh you truly are a saint, Ernest of Berenike. I will not forget your kindness, my friend.”

“What else are friends for, Siegward? I’ll see you on the other side.” Wren’s shoulders fell in disappointment as she heard the tell tale tone of a homeward cast. She frowned and pouted at the still contentedly smiling man before her. 

“Ernie…” She began quietly as she tried to think of how she wanted to put it. “You’re full of shit.” She returned his baffled look with a mild glare. “I’m not the only unkindled looking for romance.”


	15. Farron

“Do you know what the Abyss Watchers are? What they really are?”

It was the first time Wren had seen Hawkwood sitting up straight. She stood by the bonfire glaring in his direction as Ernest stood by him and spoke with him. She did not understand the magnetism the bitter bastard had that drew her mentor, but it had to be powerful. What the hell this man had that attracted Ernest so despite his bitter attitude she could not fathom. 

Ernest knew damn well. He looked at Hawkwood, heard his words, and saw himself. The hopelessness. The bitterness. The resignation.

The man clicked his tongue as Ernest listened with rapt attention. Though he did not say it, he was quite fond of having an audience. “They are a legion of undead. No mere band of accursed undead. A legion. You were a military man, Ernest of Berenike. You understand what I mean.”

His eyes, a pale brown like the distant hills of a steppe, could have cut glass with the sharpness of his glare. Though it wasn’t just his eyes that held Ernest’s attention-- the man’s voice was made for storytelling. Ernest felt as though he could listen to him without pause until the fire faded to ash itself. 

“A transient caravan sworn by the wolf’s blood to contain the Abyss. And they,” a short and bitter laugh. “Will bury a kingdom at the first sign of exposure. Undead or human. Lord or pygmy. Mother and child…” Hawkwood broke his gaze to look upwards as if seeking something, but Ernest had used the same gesture to hold back unwanted expressions himself. “A joyous bunch. Really.”

The knight, frowning deeply, dropped heavily by the man’s side. He was not yet aware of Hawkwood’s former affiliation, and if he were it would not matter. He swallowed, then reached over to the man and patted his thigh in a friendly manner. It was a gesture Hawkwood did not understand, and one he returned with a confused glare. Ernest quickly withdrew his hand and set it on his own lap.

“Do you think they’re sane?” The knight began. “Or do you think they’ve gone hollow?” A legion of hollows would be a vastly more difficult task than a legion of still sane undead. Ernest could find a way to work with the sane undead, but hollows would prove more difficult. He had been warned that they may have to bring back the ashes of the lords, but a legion of undead would take something akin to a siege or other warfare to complete.

“I can’t say.” His mouth smiled, but the rest of his body grieved. It was an expression Ernest was becoming quite used to seeing from the man. “But,” He paused. The space between words practiced but no longer intentional. “I can tell you how to reach them. Hollow or human, they will remain in Farron woods. And within Farron woods is the Old Wolf and the Wolf’s Blood. It is the soul of that blood that burned, and it is that soul and that blood that is shared among the Watchers. Or those who joined the flame. All Watchers have the blood of the Wolf, but not all Watchers burned.”

He paused and reached into his pocket, pulling out a smooth stone and running it over in his hands. “The Wolf will be protected, but the fortifications simple. Climb the tower. Find the Wolf. If the Watchers are sane, there will be Watchers with the Wolf. It is the blood of the Wolf that is guarded by ceremony, for an aspiring Watcher to join the ranks must walk the walls and smother the flames of three altars. It is… Well. Everyone wishes to be special. To be a part of something, don’t they? Even we accursed undead... What better way to unite an army than through ritual? I pity the sorry souls.”

Ernest let out a weak laugh before glancing away. “You pity them for wanting to belong or for being Watchers? There’s nothing wrong for uh. For carving out a place for yourself in this world. Gods know I’ve done it twice already.” He looked up to meet Hawkwood’s bland stare. “I was knighted in my homeland as the Devoted. That had plenty of ritual surrounding it. Ceremony and uh. Such.” Ernest smiled at the memory he would not let slip. His knight, his family, his fellow squires… “Then a century later after I’d lost all sight of everything, when I had nothing to keep going for, I became a warrior of sunlight. I found a place for myself again. There’s a place out there for you too.”

Hawkwood softened at Ernest’s seemingly naive determination. “A century..? Then I pity you for having gone so long with no purpose. But no. It is the Watchers to whom I give my sympathy. In their ruthless and brutal crusade against the Abyss, they became nameless and faceless. Desperately seeking to be something more than they really are only doomed to burn or go hollow. And a fat lot of good that came from them-- sworn to fight the Abyss they ignored the Dark that rose around them…”

Wren hated him for his attitude. She did not pause to think on the source of his knowledge or the source of his vitriol. It did not matter, for every time Ernest spoke with him, he grew melancholy. He hung on the bastard’s every word, nearly hung on him, drawing closer as they spoke, touching him, laying a hand on his shoulder or leg or whatever gesture of camaraderie was appropriate, and then he would fall into a gloom. She hated Hawkwood for what he did to her friend.

Ernest left him with a light touch.

\---

They stood at the water’s edge of a particularly vile smelling swamp. Wren remembered the swamps of Mirrah. While they did not take the entire landscape, she remembered the beautiful still water. The light coating of cypress oils, the deep dark depths, and the mirror-like quality of the surfaces. She remembered how the forest seemed infinite with its perfect mirror bottom. How the sky, the sun, the moon, the stars, all danced on the water. The birds that sang, the deer that ran, all the life and beauty of it.

This swamp was not like that.

This swamp had no clear water. It was filled with thick vile mud and biting insects. Slugs larger than her she was slipped from the water to vomit mud on them in some sort of attempt to bog them down so that they could drown them and then devour them. Hawkwood had not mentioned a swamp, at least not that she could hear, and she would unconsciously mark that against him. But Cornyx had taught her many useful pyromancies. A flame that she could fling like a whip to deter the slugs from approaching. A fire ball that shattered and scattered about. A snap and a burst of brilliant fire. And, of course, a ball she could throw that would ignite the ground it hit.

It was also the first time she saw Ernest’s pyromancy.

She had heard Cornyx gently tease Ernest for never seeking out his teaching or guidance, and each time Ernest would bat him away playfully. She had heard in that teasing Cornyx refer to Ernest’s hidden flame as strange and beautiful. If only he could see it. But Ernest would laugh, accuse Cornyx of flirting with him, and move on. Wren had thought Cornyx was flirting with him. She had believed Ernest. Cornyx was right.

For what Wren and Cornyx did not know was that Ernest’s flame, while modest, held the touch of Izalith. He considered it his greatest tragedy, and he refused to share it once more. It was a gift given out of love and camaraderie, and he deeply loved the man who shared his flame. He also doomed that man. Laurentius, sweet beautiful Laurentius, had not been able to stomach the truth of Izalith. Of what had happened to the Witches. Quelana, who had taught Ernest much and little, would not tell him how he had failed his friend; she had merely sought another pupil, and Ernest could not be that undead. 

His flame held the touch of chaos. A mistake he had shared. And it curled around his arm like a starving beast. He used it once when there were more slugs than Wren could handle, and he did not spare a modicum of mercy. To have mercy would have required him to have practice. When he summoned the first singular pillar of flame several others followed it, burning the water, throwing steam into the air, and searing the beasts until they were nothing but thin crisps of bug meat floating on the surface of vile water. 

Wren stared at him, horrified and amazed, and opened her mouth to ask him to teach her, but he dropped to his knees and held his arm. It was not hurt, not physically, but she had some level of sense. She knew better than to pry. This, it seemed, was not at all like the lightning spear. 

Ernest quickly regained himself and his thoughts, and he stood once more. “C’mon, Wren. We need to get out of the water. I’m not going to pull a Siegmeyer today, and we don’t have that much moss.”

“Who’s Siegmeyer? You’ve said that name before.” She trudged through the mud after him to a slight hill in the muck.

“He was a friend who was phenomenally bad about getting into… Heh. Pickles. ”

“Ernest… what does that even mean?”

“You know. When you’re in a pickle? You’re in trouble? You have heard that. You’ve had to have heard that.” She shrugged and shook her head. “Ah well. Nevermind. What concerns me is that we’ve seen a bunch of slugs, but no people. No Watchers. No dogs. No… people. It doesn’t bode well.”

“Yeah well, maybe they ran off. I wouldn’t stick around if someone wanted me to link the flames-- I mean! I would already be at the shrine. That’s what we’re doing now. But if--” Ernest cut her off with a hearty laugh.

“I understood you, Wren.”

A creature known colloquially as a ‘Ghru’ was not so far away. They heard the two undead chattering, and they knew the purpose of these undead. They were of cursed blood, but their ancestry was human once. They were the living descendants of the human Watchers. Centuries ago, not all Watchers had been undead, but those humans had had children, and the children had been cursed with their abyssal taint. Resilient, sapient, fully people, they carried the mark in the form of a twisted goatlike visage.

And it was their job as a people to prevent outsiders from disturbing the Watchers and the restful dead. They approached the pair silently, their long legs letting them move through the swap like nothing, and leapt. It would not be the last of the Ghru to defend their home.

\---

The Ghru, the pair realized, led them to the first tower. By simply being there and defending it, they had shown the two the path to it. It was a massive brick tower with an archway for a path to move under. The tower, a round pillar, burned like a chimney, and at the base was a small enclave with an old altar. It reminded Wren of the little altars she’d seen folks leave offerings in for minor deities. 

With the goat-folk dead, there was nothing between them and the great smoking tower. The two stared up at it, black smoke billowing from it like an ironworks, and shared a glance. “What do you think it’s burning?” Ernest raised his eyebrows, bobbing his head towards the pillar. “I mean, I don’t see a fuel source. No where to add coal. If they did, there’s no apparent air intake.”

Wren thought in it, then raised her hand to her chin to think on it. Her hand still held the summoned flame, and it singed her jaw. She reflexively ripped her hand away and shook it before registering that it was her own flame that had burned her. Just as Cornyx had warned her countless times before.

“Uh. Magic. Probably. Think it’s a pyromancy?” She shrugged. “Eh. Let’s get on with this. I don’t want to be here forever.” Ernest waved his hand towards the small altar set into the tower, and Wren moved towards it with purpose. There was a small and contained flame burning within a white bowl. This, it seemed, was the ceremonial flame Hawkwood had mentioned. When she placed her hand over it to choke it, the tower’s flame began to sputter and die as well. She watched it, jaw slack, as the flame died and the smoke went out.

“Ernie, did you--”

“Sure did. Good job, kiddo. One down. Two to go. Maybe then we’ll find the Watchers...”

“Unless they pulled an Aldrich and run off too.”

“Well. Yeah. Shall we? I mean. It’s a swamp, so there’s probably going to be a flaming spider lady at the end of it all.”

“I-- what? How does that make sense?”

“Nevermind.”


	16. Legends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2nd edition 9/4

“Irina’s been sharing all sorts of stories with me,” Wren trilled as they strode through the mud and water. “She told me about a man who was so devoted to their goddess Caitha that when he died she cried for him, and her tears gave him just a moment more. That’s the story behind her tears of denial miracle.” She smiled like a girl in love. “Caitha was known for her healing tears. It was said her great emotion brought forth powerful miracles, but she lived so long that most of her miracles surround grief…” Ernest grunted. He could understand that. “Then there are the stories of Velka and Fina. Fina’s miracles only work for those she favors, evidently. Supposedly Fina is so beautiful that all become enamoured with her, but many of her discarded favorites end up turning to Velka.” Suddenly self conscious of her chatter, she turned to Ernest. “What about you? Do you have any legends?”

“Hmm… Yeah.” He paused to think of which ones to tell her. She liked stories of the gods, clearly. “They say my homeland was once the body of an everlasting dragon. Berenike was a large mountain range, but I’ve never actually seen a dragon so… Uh. Yeah. We were also favored by the Lord of the Storm who was in some way related to the Lord of Sunlight. It’s not sure if he was actually related as kin or if he was a comrade who was given a portion of the sun like Gwyn’s knights were. It never actually stormed that much in Berenike. There was an ocean to our west, and that side of the mountains often saw storms, and the land to our east, Balder, often saw rain, but for being blessed by the Storm… we didn’t get many storms.” He shrugged. “But Berenike was a small kingdom when I was alive, so I doubt there are any real surviving legends left from it. What uh. What about your homeland? Mirrah?”

When he looked back at Wren, her eyes were sparkling. A mountain made from a dragon, a Lord favoring their tiny nation, an ocean to the west and a rival nation to the east-- she would pester him for more later. But then he asked her about her homeland, and all of that was forgotten. “You don’t know! Ah ha! You are in for a treat, Mr. Ernest!” She puffed up like a chicken about to take a dust bath. “Mirrah is home to countless legendary swordsmen! We even had a lord of cinder! We had to be skilled and incredible to protect our holy water-- it was a gift from the gods, and countless other nations coveted it. Because of that, swordsmen weren’t limited to the nobility. Oh no! Anyone with skill and determination could climb the ranks and carve a place for themself in our kingdom. One such swordsman is my greatest hero-- the magnificent Lucatiel! Our Lord of Cinder!” Wren threw her hands out as if dancing. “They say that she completed the entire journey on the verge of hollowing, that she didn’t even know what the flame was, but she kept pushing forward determined to keep her mind and her wits! The only person to ever outshine her swordsmanship was her brother. She traveled the distant land of the flame searching for both him and a cure for the curse amassing companions and friends as she went.”

“Without realizing it, she tracked her brother down to a place of horrors and dark experiments. Creatures that were once people, monsters that were once creatures, dark and twisted beings of flesh and soul! There she found her brother hollow and desperate for souls, but he was still just as skilled as he had ever been. Their swords clashed, and with each swing she felt herself growing less and less like herself. How could she kill her brother? He’d always been so much better than she! And now he was hollow, a cruel image of what was to come!” Wren took a deep dramatic breath. “But then… Her friends caught up to her. A knight with a slab of rock for a shield, a sorcerer who could cast magic with a blade, and a cleric who called on fire and miracles in equal measure. Her brother fell, and as she began to slip, the knight called her name. ‘Lucatiel,’ she said. And knowing she had been remembered, she persevered. When the flame called for her a second time, she willingly gave herself to protect her friends.”

Ernest smiled as she beamed. It was good to hear her speak so enthusiastically, and maybe he had a few other tales to share. “I got a better one for you… Well, a more detailed one anyways.” She glanced at him doubtfully thinking he would try to one up her hero. “No one knows what became of Knight-King Rendal… Berenike and Balder had been neighboring kingdoms for many years-- longer than I’d been around for sure. Both kingdoms had their ways of life, their traditions, their histories, and so on. Balder was known for their deft swordsmen and their thin rapiers. They fought up close with their small shields to take an active approach to deflecting the blades of their foes, but really they excelled in duels. In Berenike we moved as a unit with our large shields and great swords and hammers. We’d get into border squabbles from time to time, and while war never broke out we weren’t exactly  _ friendly  _ neighbors.” Wren nodded as he spoke. So far it was mundane-- there was nothing strange about any of that.

“Like Berenike, Balder’s royal family consisted of swordsmen and knights. Annoyed with the petty squabble, knight-king Rendal climbed the great mountain to the heart of our kingdom. He waited at the gate with his sword by his side, and while several of the guards suspected foul play, he was allowed inside. He was tired of the squabbles and challenged our king to a duel. The weapon was to be softwood staves to prevent serious injury.” He stroked his beard and chuckled. “I watched that duel. Our king broke his staff over Rendal’s head, but the man stood back up. He wavered, whacked our king right back, then sat down. Heh, in the end, Rendal had a large bump on his head and my king had a black eye.”

Wren waited for Ernest to get to the part with a legend, but that never came. They marched past a large stone tower through the muck looking for the last fire to smother. In their chatter, they completely missed the ladder that ran up it and unknowingly walked right past the tower with the Wolf that Hawkwood had told them about. “There was a knight kingdom other than Mirrah before I was born,” she began in an attempt to connect with Ernest. “It was called Forossa. They were known for being as deft and dextrous with a two handed sword as a fencer was with a rapier or estoc. Or maybe they used two swords…” She tapped her chin as she thought. “Either way, the kingdom fell and the remnants of the people became mercenaries and freelancers. Before that, though, they were favored as an ally of Drangleic. They were allowed to keep the designation of “kingdom” when really they were more like dukedoms. We were taught a lot of history in Mirrah, but I think I know a knight-king you’d like.”

When he perked up, she continued. “They called him the Ivory King. He was a knight of Forossa, and he found a woman who had a strong affinity for the Dark. He took pity on her despite knowing what she might bring for she was not a cruel woman. She was just a girl. Just being connected to the Dark wasn’t a crime. She had the gift of foresight, and with her he built the kingdom of Eleum Loyce. And he had a magnificent soul! He built the massive kingdom at the foot of a great mountain range! So kind and gentle was he that he was largely regarded as the greatest king a nation could have. Despite all of his power, his compassion knew no bounds-- all legend of course. I don’t actually know how much of that is true… But one day something old and angry awoke beneath his kingdom, or maybe he built his kingdom atop it. When his knights could not hold it back, he went to confront it alone… It was then that Eleum Loyce froze.” She grinned conspiratorially. “And no one has ever heard from it since…”

Ernest chuckled at her campfire style of story telling. He half expected her to say that the Ivory King still roamed the land looking for something-- his missing head or lost oracle. The two of them found a small hill in the mire and began to climb it so they could get out of the muck for just a moment and see a little better around them. At some point he’d almost gotten used to the smell and the horrible sensation of the mud, but every time he was briefly free of it he would remember how he hated it. His feet slipped around in his boots and the mud made uncomfortable grinding noises in his armor’s links. Wren led them up the hill and paused with her head canted to the side. “Hey, Ernie. Do undead still eat?” She pointed in front of her to a cauldron with some sort of estus mix in it. There were bits of herbs and what might have been meat, but he was too chicken to try it. 

“I dunno. I never had to.” He knelt down to sniff it-- and oddly enough it smelled appealing. He then dipped his finger in it, pulled it out, and licked it. “I never tried-- oooh…” He smiled with a dawning realization. “Siegward made this. I have got to catch up with that man. You uh. You too, Wren.” With a smile, he dipped his estus flask into the brew to save a little for later. Wren moved next to him, watched as he drank more of the stew and didn’t keel over dead, then took some herself. For a while, Ernest let himself sit in a warm stupor while Wren poked at the dirt around her.

“Hey uh, Ernie.” She poked him. “I think Siegward left his handkerchief. Now it’s all muddy but…” Wren held up a muddy cloth. Ernest stared at it for a moment recognizing the red, yellow, white, and grey that peeked out from the dirt, but it took him longer to register what he was looking at. His eyes widened like a cat’s who had just spotted a fat mouse. With a quick “gimmie that!” he snatched it from her hand and poured out his estus over it. His eyes grew glassy as the mud washed from it. His breathing quickened.

“Talk about legends,” he whispered as he ran his thumb over the talisman again and again. “Wren… I have the greatest legend yet to tell you…” She sat next to him with her legs pulled up to her chin ready for an actual story this time. “I traveled with a man named Solaire…” Her eyes widened. “He was beautiful in mind, body, and soul. His hair was like wheat just before the harvest, his words like the warmth of the summer, his love as endless as the eternal day… He showed us how to pull the sunlight from the air, how to heave it into our enemies… He was so determined to find his sun, to link the flame, that he fought his very god. He climbed great heights to the seat of the Lords, great depths to the Chaos below, and traveled to the kiln of the First Flame. Oscar and I stood by his side to the end, but in the end his god, the Lord he worshipped and revered, struck him down… In the end, I sent Oscar away from the Kiln and carried Solaire to that Flame… He could not walk the final stretch, but I could take him there… I could… I could…”

Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he began to blubber. Wren reached out to his shoulder and tugged him into a hug. He clung to the talisman whether it was Solaire’s or not, it was enough. If it was Siegward’s, he had no intention of giving it back. “It’s ok, Ernie… It’s ok…” There was little for her to say. She too tried to light the flame and failed. If Solaire was with them, then he must have failed too, and his journey would have been for naught. Just as hers seemed to have been. “If Solaire were here, he would have found you already…” She ran her hand up and down his back though she knew he couldn’t feel it. She had no idea if that made things better or worse as he started to bawl. Maybe crying was good, or maybe she’d said the wrong thing. She decided to say nothing else for a while.

When his shoulders stilled and his tears stopped, Ernest pulled away and wiped his face. He looked down to the talisman-- it shook in his hand. After a moment, he stood, forced a smile, and looked on ahead. “Whether he’s a part of the Flame or wandering lost, my friends continue to find ways to keep me going. And uh, thanks. Wren.” He chewed on his lip and bowed his head. “I consider you one of my friends…” With a genuine smile, he met her worried gaze. “Let’s go catch up with Siegward. I’ll be OK.”


	17. Gotthard

Gotthard was a traitor. It didn’t matter how he rolled the dice or what decisions he made, he was or would be a traitor. If he stood stalwart guarding the princes, he would betray the world to a dying flame. If he stood against his princes, if he sought the lords in an attempt to convince the brothers to fulfill their duty, then he betrayed his sworn lords. To leave his post was treason. To remain at his post was treason. 

The betrayal of a nation was secondary to the betrayal of the world. 

He had left the city without the high priestess’s knowing and traveled first to the Cathedral of the Deep. It was the resting place of the Lord Aldrich and the home to the vile worship of the so-called Deep. It was a dark worship based in pain and despair, and Gotthard had watched it take root in the surrounding lordships. How the Princes allowed such a thing when they were adherents to the Sun was beyond him. They, the holy kingdom of Lothric, had once reared drakes under the Sunlight’s guidance. They had held back the night time and time again with their royal bloodline, but the princes now forsook their duty on an apathetic whim.

No. He would betray them for their foolish decision, for betraying them would save them all.

The cathedral had been empty. He found no sign of Aldrich or his defeat, but instead he found the corpses of his deacons littered about the great stone tomb. Among them he found a doll, a stone thing that spoke to him, that urged him on to Irithyll. So he changed his course for the Watchers. They were, after all, much closer than Irithyll was. 

\---

Mud and grime had long since soaked Wren’s pants. The muck filled Ernest’s boots, but with a tired slap, he smothered the last of the flames. The gamit had been frustrating, stinking, and over all unpleasant, but they would at least know now if the Watchers had maintained their hold on the Wolf’s Blood. The pair smiled at each other when they heard the distant gates creeping open. It would not be long yet. 

It took them some time to trudge to the gate, and for a moment they paused at the bonfire to clean their armor and breathe. It would grow filthy again, of course, as they had to cross the mire further once more to reach the opened gate. Ernest shifted his pack -- two scrolls he’d found in this lost land -- and considered dropping back by Orbeck to honor his promise. He would have to wait, though, as the Watchers came first.

\--

When Gotthard reached the open gates to the inner fortress of Farron, he paused. Three braisers burned in front of it, and as he had traversed the swamp three burning towers had gone out. Who ever had satisfied the ceremony would be soon to follow, and he thought about waiting for them, but he had too little time. If he was unlucky, then his fellow Black Hands would come for him and stop him. If he was lucky, then they would leave him be until he returned. He did not have much time to dawdle, and so he began the trek to the Watcher’s inner sanctum.

Gotthard had no pity for the crow-folk. He should have, but he didn’t. They had followed Sulyvahn from their painted world and either abandoned him or worked at his wandering eyes. Not quite human, they were rejected from the Deep religion. By all accounts they were a tragic people with no home, no security, and no one to look to. Their very own had betrayed them for nothing. He had met Sulyvahn once before he became the Pontiff. He was a sorcerer, a strange hollow faced man with wings and traits concealed beneath robes and sorcery. Of course, what he was and where he had come from were all common knowledge, but his presentation was important. 

The King would not have listened so easily to a corvian who’s feathers lined his back. But Gotthard did not care much about Sulyvahn. The man was a bastard, a liar, a puppetmaster, and a traitor, but he was  _ not  _ a Lord of Cinder. They could deal with him when the world spun like it should once more.

Still, needless death did not befit the Black Hand. The first corvians he saw he disabled. The Storyteller would rile them to battle unless he silenced their cries, so he knelt in the far brush, drew his arrow, knocked it, and let out a held breath. It flew true and hit its mark. A quick death was a painless death. When the storyteller died, they simply fell to the side and their followers began to mourn. He walked freely through them. Ready for whatever came next.

\--

Ernest and Wren shifted awkwardly around the crying Corvians. For a moment, Ernest tried comforting one of them. He placed a hand on their shoulder and began to say soft things, but they turned and wailed, spooking him so that he stumbled backwards. Wren laughed as he tumbled back, baffled like a kitten who’d just been hissed at by an elder.

“Don’t laugh at me, Wren.” His words were more of a pout as they stepped through the path. The cobble stone was a welcome change.

“I’m not!” She lied through a stifled giggle. The image of Ernest nearly falling backwards wide eyed and startled still in her mind.

“Wren it was spooky. I wasn’t expecting that. It was like--” Her giggles were infectious, and he found himself smiling wide just the same. “It was like uh.” 

“Ernie it’s fine. I’m not - _ snrkt _ \- laughing at you.”

“Wren of Mirrah, you are a terrible liar, and I will get you back for it.”

She bumped him with her elbow. “Oh yeah? What’cha gonna do? Show--” She began to giggle again. “Show Irina my baby pictures?”

“Oh that’s a good one…”

“Ernie she’s blind…”

“Oh. Right. No I’ll probably… I dunno. Put sand in all of your socks… I--”

Wren stopped him, lifting her spear to block him from moving forward. A head of them stood a figure, a man, in dark, almost mossy, leather clothing with a matching ragged cloak and broad brimmed hat. He faced away from them, a quiver on the small of his back and a strung bow hanging from a strap just above. He stood over the corpse of a dark wraith, and Ernest’s blood ran cold. The knight would have recognized their twisted black armor from anywhere, and their presence was a damning sign. The man in dark leather wiped clean his straight sword’s blade before returning it to its scabbard, and slowly he turned to face the traveling pair. 

He had not been young when the curse took him. His face was careworn and wrinkled with both sunlight and age. His eyes drooped with ageless fatigue, and he reached upwards to tip his hat. “Friend or foe?” He called to them, his foot still on the wraith’s back, his hand moving to grip the handle of one of his blades. 

“Anyone who hunts dark wraiths is a friend of mine.” Ernest smiled as he moved towards the man, his own sword resting comfortably on his shoulder and his shield at his side. His guard was not down, but nor was he prepared to strike. A compromise for meeting a stranger. “I am Ernest, the Devoted of Berenike. This is Wren of Mirrah, Herald of the Way of White.”

“Gotthard of the Black Hand.”

The man, Gotthard, watched as Ernest set his shield against his leg and held out his hand. A handshake was an odd greeting in Lothric, and it had been an odd greeting in Lordran and Berenike, but some how it seemed fitting. A left handed handshake was even stranger, but as right handed men they still held their swords. It was awkward, a bit bumbling, but it was also the first human contact Gotthard had had in some time. Ernest’s grip was firm, his smile wide, and face gentle. Wren watched the handshake completely confused as to what significance it could have possibly had. 

“I have heard of Mirrah,” the man said with a tip of his hat to Wren. “But not of Berenike. How far must you have traveled, Ernest the Devoted, to come to a land where your own is unknown.”

A warmth, a life really, filled Ernest as he was addressed. So often he gave his title, and never in this cycle had he been referred to with it. His smile softened, his face warmed, and his tension eased. It was like being called by his name, his actual name, for the first time in years. 

“I can’t say how long it’s been since I lived and died and died again. In my time, Mirrah was nothing, and Lothric… There was no such name, much less a land. I was born in the time of Lords-- true Lords. Not Lords of Cinder, but of Sunlight, Death, Chaos. My entire homeland was wiped out in the curse but…” He nudged the corpse of the dark wraith with his foot. “I know damn well what this is, and if this is here, then that bodes very poorly.”

“Yes. Yes it does. But with its body, we can start a fire. Come, there’s a piece of the old wall ahead of us where we can rest. An old fire that went out some time ago but that still has the coiled sword waiting to be lit.”

\--

Ernest didn’t sleep peacefully, not usually. He was hyper vigilant in times of rest, and he couldn’t relax on the road or in the shrine. He would wake at the smallest sound, the weakest voice-- the weaker the voice the more likely he woke. The only place he could find rest, proper rest, was in Andre’s shop where the pounding hammer drowned out all other sounds.

So it was that Wren was ecstatic to see him sleeping solidly by the bonfire between her and Gotthard. She watched her mentor for a moment before turning to the older man. Day did not fade in Lothric, not into night like it was supposed to. She missed the darkness of a campground at night-- the owls, the creatures that woke in the night and sang and skittered. It was like losing half of her life, but… she was already dead. “Mr. Gotthard…” She scooted closer. He didn’t respond. “Mr. Gotthard..?” She said more insistently.

“Hm? Oh.” He shook himself as if he’d been sleeping. “Yes, dear?” He smiled at her across the flame, the light flickering over his wrinkles and cracked skin. He didn’t look as worn as Cornyx, but he didn’t die young either. Even if undeath had just hit him… She smiled. Ernest was over a century… 

“I was wondering… How old are you? I mean-- in total. No… wait. How long have you been undead? And you introduced yourself as a Black Hand-- what’s that? Where are you from? Is Gotthard your entire name? Do you ever stop by the shrine? Have you met Andre? Cornyx--” He threw up a hand to slow her.

“Easy, dear. One question at a time.” The older fellow shifted, cracked his back, and adjusted in his spot. “I fell to undeath when I was in my fifties-- a very old age for a hunter of the King. I am aware of how I look, but the curse claimed us before I was useless.” His eyes crinkled with his smile. Wren believed that he might have been fifty-- he looked like he could have been her father if he aged poorly or her grandfather if he aged well, but he didn’t quite look fifty. It was, she supposed, how stress aged a man beyond his time. “I have been undead for several centuries. Though our Lords have linked the flames time and time again, I haven’t died a permanent death in between them.”

She stared, wide-eyed and jaw slack. “How… How did you not go hollow? Ernie’s been around a century, and he says he’s still teetering on the edge of it. How are you still… you?”

“A purpose, dear girl. A purpose is the strongest defense against hollowing, and I have had the honor and the privilege of serving several generations of noble monarchs. The boys now, the Princes, are my lords, and I have taken it upon myself to help them in a way they do not understand that they need.” She was a sweet thing. Her kind of naivety did not typically survive undeath, but there she was, hanging on his every word in awe and excitement. “The King’s Black Hands are hunters who have lived, and died, in service of the royal line and continue to serve faithfully through the generations. I am both adviser, body guard, and hunter, or assassin if you prefer that term. Assassinations require political motive, and as a hand of the monarchy, all of my targets would be… politically motivated.”

Ernest stirred, shifting and listening to their conversation but not quite awake to participate. Wren glanced down to him then back to Gotthard, but the older hunter was watching Ernest. “A century… Undead for a century before the flame was relinked? Before the kingdom of Lothric was established, there may have been many times where such a crisis had occurred, but I am unaware of any particular one. But no, dear, I do not stop by the shrine. The other Hands do not feel my course of action is acceptable. They blindly follow our Prince-Lord without accepting their duty as adviser. I parted with the highpriestess’s blessing.”

“And what’s you’re goal?” Ernest shifted, rolling and pushing himself upwards. He blinked a few times to shed the sleep from his eyes. “You said Emma? What’s Lothric doing with those demons?” His thoughts weren’t quite clear yet as he lurched side to side waking. He smiled gently at the man beside him and wavered in his grogginess. “And I was undead for the first iteration.”

“So you mentioned.” Gotthard smiled, and Wren quickly looked to Ernest. Here was a man of an appropriate age and experience who was stable and not a bitter sadsack. If she were lucky, Ernest would drop Hawkwood and latch onto Gotthard instead. “As I was telling the young lady, my goal is to convince my prince-Lord to accept his duty as a Lord of Cinder. To do that, it’s my intention to hunt the other Lords of Cinder and remind them of theirs. It is my unfortunate understanding that they will not be keen on fulfilling their duties.” He chuckled. “As for the demons… I don’t know. They have served for longer than I have, and I have never been given a proper answer. Something to do with an ancient covenant, I believe.”

The knight cracked his back and rolled his shoulders before turning to look up the path. Broken bodies littered the stone and grass, most of which were the goat-folk but a few among them belonged to the dark wraiths. A cold shiver ran down his spine like rain water slipping in the cracks of his armor. “I can respect that.” His gaze lingered on the bodies and the road. “Do you… have a plan? If you served royalty, do you have any sway?”

“Over the Watchers?” He pulled off his hat and held it to his chest for a moment. “No… If they had been active fifty years ago, my kingdom would have been buried.” His eyes met Wren’s. She could not make their color out from the flames, but they were much like the rest of him-- hard like weathered stone. Like a rounded mountain. Smooth around the edges and no longer painful, but cold none the less. 

“Is the Abyss… in Lothric?” She leaned forward, feeling for the old fellow. Wren had never seen the Abyss in person-- she hadn’t known what to make of the Cathedral of the Deep. Ernest turned back to them, focusing on Gotthard and eager for a reply.

“It is beginning to show, dear. The Watchers have ruined lands for less. Our king fell to madness some time ago, and the Princes embrace the fading flames. It had been my hope to find and reclaim Aldrich first so that I could show them there is still time for redemption, but it seems we must seek the Watchers. Their threat will likely push the lad forward. As for the Watchers… I suppose we’ll have to play them by ear. If they are here…” He replaced his hat and began to stand. “We shall see if they are open to reasoning. Abandoning the flame or not, they will not abandon their duty.”

Wren stood with him, and Ernest slowly rose. “I suppose so. We did do their little ceremony. That rite of passage. Maybe they’ll give us the time of day.”

“Ah, so you opened the gate? Lit the braisers? I happened to be there when the doors seemed to move on their own.”

“We actually  _ smothered  _ little flames,” Wren piped in. “I guess those lit the braisers, huh. What do you think it means to them?”

“I can’t say, dearie--”

“But I know someone who can…” Ernest stared pointedly at the road ahead of them. Wren rolled her eyes followed by her head then shoulders as her entire body exaggerated the expression.

“Ernie, if you say ‘Hawkwood’...” He smiled wickedly before winking at her and lifting his sword to his shoulder. He waited until she met his eyes then mouthed  _ Hawkwood  _ at her with a stupid grin. She met it with a groan. All the while Gotthard stood between them lost and amused.

“Today sir knight and dear herald!” Gottard suddenly drew his sword and raised it to the sky. “We bring the Lords home!”

  
  



	18. The Watchers

Archibald.

His name many life times ago had been ‘Archibald’. Beside him lay ‘Cornelia’ and ‘Gadar’. In one hand, palm upward and limp, lay a curved and chiseled parry dagger. The tip had worn away to a dull stump, but the blade remained sharp even postmortem. His other hand was caught beneath Gadar’s heavy shoulders. Cornelia’s great blade had run him through before another nameless undead had done her in.

They lay together, peaceful in final death. Their blood mingled on the stone floor running as rivulets towards the the hidden hollow in the floor. 

Sasha stood, of the last Watchers standing, swinging his great blade in an exhausted attempt to ward off Asterales’s reanimated attacks. The other watcher, his opponent, could have been anyone. Sasha was no longer truly aware of himself much less the identities of those he fought with. He had no way to know if the watcher before him stood with him or against him, but their knife found itself clashing with his sword, and his with theirs. 

When the Watchers made their pilgrimage to the Kiln, they knew they would not return properly. They would take with them the last of the true Wolf’s blood. They would take with them their legacy. Their hope for a future for their order, but they would inspire hope for a future for the world. Such was the Dark that they needed to burn. They could no long put the torch to the shadows, they had to become the Flame. They had marched, together, as an entire legion. All seven thousand of them marched for the First Flame, and all seven thousand of them burned. Those who had tried to flee on the march to the flame had been rounded up and thrown upon the fires first.

Of the seven thousand, a mere sixty survived. The sixty of them remained to place the swords of their fallen into the ground surrounding the flame, and when they had finished rest was theirs to claim in the soft earth of Farron.

It was the Way of the Watcher to mark important battle fields with the blades of the fallen. These battles would become monuments to their efforts. When a Watcher died far from the field of memorable conflict, their body was left to rot and their blades returned to Farron. The Sixty had not achieved final death when they returned to their home, and so they rested in stone coffins with their weapons. A stupor took them as they hibernated.

The first bell of awakening tolled, and slowly, one by one, they climbed from their tombs and readied their gear. Their swords bled as they polished the steel. Their knives glinted in the grim work of preparing for battle. 

“True Dark is upon us once more.” A watcher lieutenant of ages past spoke. He sat upon the stone of the tomb of a friend who had not risen. “If we light it once more, there will be no Watchers left at all.” His friend stirred, and he offered them a hand.

“Watcher Foxwater, was that not the understanding the first time we marched for the flame?” Gadar was an imposing man. Though his face and skin were concealed beneath their uniform, his hollowed eyes still pierced him like hot knives. Foxwater winced beneath his scrutiny. 

“Yessir.”

“We will march for the flame, and we will hold back the Dark once more.”

“It’s just…” The lieutenant stood, pulling a knife from its sheath by his side and twirling it between his fingers. “It seems irresponsible. If we march off with no one to carry  _ our  _ torch, well.” He shrugged. “What’s to stop the Dark from taking root in our absence? Who’s to say… it hasn’t already?”

“I’m with Foxwater.” A watcher on the other side of the mausoleum called out. “We don’t know what’s out there. We shouldn’t blindly march to the flame. We’re all veterans, Gadar. We know better than to act so quickly and stupidly.”

“Stupidly?” A voice, Cornelia’s, cried out. “We bury the Abyss the moment it rears its ugly head. We light the flame, we keep it goin’!”

“Aye! But bright flames cast long shadows!”

“If the flame’s bright enough, there’s no shadows!”

“I’m just saying that we need to do some recon.”

“I am not burning again! Not for it all to fade to shadows like it did!”

“You don’t have a choice-- we are sworn by the Blood to do whatever it takes!”

“This is putting a bandage on a hemorrhaging wound!”

“We do whatever it takes--”

“Just because it’s a great sacrifice doesn’t mean it’s an  _ effective  _ one!”

“The Abyss has claimed you, brother!”

The shouting stopped. The Watchers drew their helmets over their eyes, hiding their faces, as they formed a ring around the wall, trapping the Challenger and the Challenged.

“You who have claimed corruption, draw your sword.” A deep rolling voice echoed through the crowd. “You who have been accused, draw your sword.” Their arbiter, the Oldest of them, stepped forward out of the crowd. To either side of their Arbiter the Challenger and the Challenged awkwardly and frantically readied their weapons. Sasha, the accused, had not wanted this. He had not expected that by joining in the debate it would draw blood shed, much less an Accusation. His pulse rose; his breaths quickened. The Challenger, Archibald, looked to him fearfully. There was no withdrawing an Accusation. 

“Salute.” The two raised their blades. “On guard.” They placed their helmets. “Begin.”

They were undead before but now Unkindled. Archibald lept, great blade raised held backward in his hand. His intent was to simply close the gap without allowing Sasha to counter him. Sasha dodged to his right to the opening on Archibald’s left, but the Watcher knew too well his weak spots and spun about his great blade, wrenching it from the ground. 

The style of the Watcher was meant for a group hunting down a single foe. It was wolves hunting as a pack, not a single man fighting a single man. They knew all too well which direction the other would pivot on the knife and how far their great swords could reach. They feinted left and right, parried without openings to riposte upon, until they were both panting. But there was only one end to a challenge. One of them would have to die, and if the crowd disagreed, then they would both die. Sasha’s only hope for survival was to fight with a clear head to prove he had not yet been corrupted by the Abyss. That he had not fallen from the order.

Archibald grew weary, and with his fatigue he grew sloppy. It was the end, and he knew it. He staggered backwards, blades held loosely in his hands, and met Sasha’s gaze as he lunged forward to impale him on his great blade. A heavy weight, a body, slammed into Sasha’s side. He stumbled and fell as another Watcher, Gadar, crashed into him. The man drew his knife and raised it, but before he could plunge it into Sasha’s chest, another Watcher bellowed and hoisted Gadar from him. 

“He is dead, Gadar! Abyss take him!”

“I will not stand for this!”

“Then you will die with him!”

A sword, not Sasha’s, tore through Archibald from behind, and the Watcher fell to the ground. A cry escaped another watcher as Sasha scrambled to his feet in horror. Gadar twisted out of Foxwater’s grip, though something horrible twisted over his face, and he turned his knife onto his fellow.

Foxwater did not fall, not yet. He wrenched himself from Gadar’s grasp, knife still embedded in his shoulder, and slugged him. As Gadar stumbled backwards, Foxwater pulled the knife from his shoulder and swung at the other man’s throat with it. Blood sprayed red and coated the blade. Gadar’s hand flew to his throat, but he found himself unable to stay standing. His momentum carried him backwards where he stumbled and fell upon the corpse of his friend. 

Another Watcher fell upon Foxwater, and another upon them. 

“You did this!” A voice in the crowd cried out before a Watcher, someone he no longer recognized, fell upon Sasha.

\--

He had died. He knew he had died. Several times he had felt the pain of a blade severing his spine, or the sharp cut of a knife across his throat or other major artery. A fire filled him and cut short his cold rest. He would rise, stand, and fight. He no longer understood why he fought. His body was broken. His mind was broken. His soul was broken. He no longer thought clearly, and perhaps this is what it meant to go hollow. Endless battles. 

Sasha did not recognize the Watcher he fought. He did not recognize Asterales. He would not even if he saw their face. They knocked his great sword to the ground, slamming their fist against his face as they manipulated his arm against him, but their strength failed them. As they fell towards the ground, Sasha caught their throat with the hilt of his knife. It stunned them, and when they stood to recover, he lifted himself with a hand on their shoulder. Steadying both of them, he readied his great blade and shoved it through to the hilt. Briefly, restfully, he paused with his head on their shoulder. He could rest. He could sleep. Perhaps he could die.

The heavy doors that had not yet been cracked groaned in protest as someone from outside pushed them inward. If Sasha were capable of it, he might have begun to cry, but there was nothing left in him but exhaustion. He turned, pushing his Challenger to the ground, to see three figures-- three challengers.  _ Salute.  _ He raised his blades.  _ On guard.  _ He crouched, ready to charge.  _ Begin.  _

Three of them. He lept at the first one, a knight in steel armor. Heavily protected but likely slow. Weak points would be his underarms and the back of his knees. His face was exposed. That would work too. But the knight raised his tower shield far more quickly than the watcher had expected, and Sasha landed on it before bounding off. 

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

A man in black leather drew a bow. A woman with a smaller shield and a long sword produced a talisman. Sasha could not do this alone. He charged for the archer, swinging his greatsword upwards once close enough, but the man had retreated and his armored companion once more foiling Sasha. The tower shield slammed into him, knocking him to the side. A bolt of lightning struck him from behind. He would die, three on one, but he would die as a Watcher should. 

“Gotthard! Behind you!” The woman’s voice reminded him of a babbling brook, and for a moment Sasha remembered himself. He paused long enough for the knight to nearly land a blow, but he deflected it with his parry knife. Behind the man in black rose another Watcher. They stalked him, cutting through his armor and grazing his skin with their greatsword. But the other Watcher stopped. They saw Sasha, and they abandoned their target. The man in black wasted no time. He drew his blades and fell upon the rogue watcher.

The man in black cried out when another risen Watcher cut through his armor and wounded his shoulder. Before the Watcher could put an end to him, the knight impaled the Watcher upon his own blade. The herald, ready to take on one of the risen, watched in horror as two risen stood and began to fight Sasha. Exhausted as he was, the other two had died and returned several times over. Their bodies were broken, shattered, and their will had faded to nothing. Expended, the two fell, and Sasha turned his gaze on the woman.

She saw it. She saw a cry for help. Begging for peace. She whispered something he could not hear, and her sword caught with sunlight. The sparks danced across it, and their eyes met. Perhaps he willed himself still. Perhaps he was simply spent. It didn’t matter as the herald launched herself at him and ran him through.

The Watcher sagged then fell. He slipped from her blade and landed upon the bloody stone. 

“Ernie…” He heard as he fell into death once more. “What did we do..?”

It was not Sasha who rose one last time. The Watchers, collectively, felt the flame demanding their service. They felt the pain of fire, and the Wolf’s Blood revolted. “ _ Ernie! _ ” They all heard her voice together at first. “ _ What?!”  _ As the undead about them spoke in fearful voices, their conscious began to coalesce into one being. It was not Sasha who rose, but it was Sasha’s body who hosted the Blood and their Souls. 

The flames burned within the body and augmented the blades they wielded. The knife. The greatsword. These had always been extensions of the Watcher, but now, with the Flame behind them and manifesting, they were truly a part of the Watcher. No longer tired, they found themselves moving as if they were alive once more. The body danced, dodging about the knight’s shield, the swinging blades of the man in black, the miracles of the herald. What blows they took they did not recognize. Blood did not ooze from their wounds but rather fire and ash. 

Like the patron they never knew, they danced like a puppet on a string. Like the matron who had founded them, their blade work cut through the most well guarded defenses. The knight screamed, and the woman retaliated. The man in black kept them away with arrows. The harder they fought the more powerful the flames burned. 

The Watcher could not last, for the brighter a fire burned, the more quickly it wasted away. The knight, now pinned to one spot, hurled lightning and curses. The herald fell back to the knight, slinging lightning with him. The two peppered the Watcher until they could stand no longer, and the man in black ran them through one last time.

The cold was peaceful. The flame’s constant burning began to subside as their body fell to ash and mere cinders. The blood of the Watchers beneath the body mingled with the ashes of the Blood of the Wolf. 

_ It’s dark.  _ They whispered to each other.  _ So it is.  _

_ We will be kindling after all. _


	19. Paternal Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2nd edition 9/7

“You won’t come back with us?” Wren knelt by Gotthard’s side while he rested from the battle. The Watchers had died in droves at some point-- their bodies had collapsed in heaps. Perhaps after a few fell, others tripped over their corpses and met their own ends. Wren tried not to think about it.

“No my dear. I told you,” he smiled. “I’m a man on the run. I would be quite the fool to go to a hub like the shrine.” She pouted for a moment, but she knew he was right. “But I’m sure we’ll run into each other again soon.” He placed a hand over hers reassuringly, and together they watched Ernest carry out the task he’d given himself.

Either the Lords or their embers had to be returned. Ernest took the cape from one of the dead watchers and fashioned it into a bag. It wouldn’t be the prettiest way to return a lord, but for now they didn’t have the time to spare to fetch a prettier  _ sack.  _ It would have to do. Nor did he have an elegant way to collect their embers. He searched around the room for still burning pieces of Watcher or their remaining ashes. The last of them who had stood was almost entirely embers, and Ernest had taken great care to collect the bones and ash from the corpse. In a moment of levity, he picked up the hat-like helmet and placed it in the sack with the burning skull. He continued this for every skull he found about the room that still burned. And when he could find no more embers and no more ash, he nodded. “Gotthard,” he began. “You really are something else.”

The undead smiled and tipped his hat. “Careful young man, you’ll give me ideas.” Ernest’s laugh was short and warm. He muttered something about Wren being the one with ideas, and began to head for the bonfire they’d left behind. Wren leaned over to kiss Gotthard’s cheek, then chased after Ernest. 

Firelink shrine held an uncanny resemblance to the mausoleum. Though stripped of bones the chambers surrounding the main room were filled with worn tombstones and caskets. They were in such absurd abundance that they served as makeshift furniture more than anything else. It was a stark contrast to the mausoleum that was now filled with the bodies of the watchers with no stones to mark them. 

Ernest was the first to step through the flames into the shrine. He carried a canvas bag over his shoulder, and as he stepped through the flames seemed to linger on it, reaching for it like kindling. Wren followed him with apprehension. She felt as though they had failed to bring the first of the Lords to their thrones, but she said nothing. It had been a blood bath before they arrived, and there was nothing they could have done to stop it. She knew this, and yet she still felt as though she had failed. Wren was so entrenched with this dread that she kept glancing at the Firekeeper without watching what she was doing. And so determined to be respectful to the dead was Ernest that he was unaware of the eyes on them.

Few people frequented the shrine, but there were a few more or less permanent fixtures. Hawkwood was one such figure. He watched unnoticed so close to the throne that he could reach out and touch them, but he did no such thing. Something settled in his gut like the pit of a hard fruit. It could not merely be relief. Dread, perhaps? He watched as Wren fumbled and as Ernest delicately placed the cape of a watcher-- the same red cape he wore-- on the throne. He’d folded it into a makeshift container, and once he’d set it down he simply opened it. Hawkwood’s heart pounded and felt like a hand had grabbed it all at once as he saw not a pile of ash or a mangled corpse but the  _ burning skulls  _ of the Watchers he had once fought alongside. 

And then he felt relief. It was well and truly them. There was a moment of grief, but it was lost as Ernest gently adjusted the hat on one of the skulls. Could he really have done anything to help them? It had taken all of them to link the flame so long ago-- his singular attempt had been worth nothing. He stared listlessly at the cinders feeling more and more tired and worn until he noticed the two lord-slaying unkindled staring at him. He broke his gaze away and stared pointedly at the flames. Wren rolled her eyes, but Ernest’s gaze lingered. He knew all too well what it felt like to be the last of one’s hollowed comrades.

Ernest was just as painfully aware that there was nothing he could say or do for the man, so he tried to make his presence as unobtrusive as possible while Wren trotted down the steps past Hawkwood. He lashed out grabbing Wren’s wrist as she moved past him. She cried out in surprise, but he did not hurt her. Ernest quickly laid his hand over Hawkwood’s and squeezed at the base of his thumb to get him to release. It didn’t take much pressure before Hawkwood let go and turned his attention to Ernest.

There was a moment while he formed the words and a click of his tongue as he began to speak. “You offed the Lords of Cinder, the Undead Legion…” Ernest couldn’t decipher the emotions that played over Hawkwood’s face. They were there only for a moment before falling under his calm and disinterested mask. “So that’s... how they’re delivered to their thrones.” As he spoke, his words turned into a murmur. Something private only for him and the dead to hear. 

Wren watched in frustration as Ernest sat down with him. He knelt by Hawkwood’s side and placed his hand on the man’s knee before leaning towards him and whispering, “I know. I well and truly know.” Hawkwood met Ernest’s desperate look with mild confusion. “I had my own like you did. Brothers and sisters--”

“--You’d known for a century?” Hawkwood leaned back a bit like the time they’d first met.

“With whom I’d made pilgrimage to the land of the lords.”

“And they went hollow.”

“And yours burned.”

Hawkwood relaxed. He looked back to the flame with a determination that hadn’t been there before. “We Unkindled are worthless. We can’t even die right.” His hands balled into fists. “I neglected to thank you. For helping them find their peace.” He lifted his head to face Wren as he quickly undid the belts on his right glove and whipped it from his hand. With the glove on his lap, he slipped off a ring and held it out to her. “Take it.” His hand was unremarkable, but a part of her felt like he was naked. The only skin he showed was his face, and she’d rather he kept it that way.

She didn’t want to take the ring from him but she did want him to put his glove back on. She held out her hand with some trepidation, and as Hawkwood dropped it in her palm he forced a thin smile. He took a breath and felt as though some great weight had been lifted from him. If the Unkindled were as worthless as he thought, then it didn’t matter what he chose to do from here on out. He was free.

Relieved of that, Ernest stood and placed a hand on Wren’s shoulder. He scanned for Irina and spotted her sitting with the firekeeper and the old woman. It had been a horrible rush of emotions with the Watchers, Gotthard, and Hawkwood. Wren could use the easy warmth of a friend, and Ernest felt he could use the good energy that would radiate from the two girls. He chuckled as thoughts of Hawkwood and grief faded into the background, but as he began to follow Wren to her friend, he saw her face fall into a sneer. Turning, he saw Eygon leaning against the wall on the other side of the bonfire.

“ You. ” Was all Ernest said, the two of them marching over to the knight. “What do you think you’re doing here?” This was not what he wanted to deal with.

“Been some time. I just dropped in to see how she's getting on.” Ernest could almost hear him smile through his helmet. His voice was like slightly overcooked chocolate that was pleasant at first but left a bitter aftertaste. “Now, what are you playing at with this circus? This cesspool of doddering odd folk and degenerates.” Eygon bounced his head to gesture towards the Maiden and Hawkwood. “Couldn't be better. She must fit in perfectly here." He began to laugh at what he must have thought to have been a joke. 

Wren turned red, an anger Ernest rarely saw in her. “This isn’t a circus. The only clown here is you!” She jabbed a finger in his armored chest, but Eygon did nothing but laugh a small and bitter laugh. 

“Is that so?”

With no intention to genuinely diffuse the situation, Ernest put his hand on Wren’s shoulder and pulled her back. “I’ve got this Wren. Hold on. This is between dads.”

Eygon, still relaxed and lulled into a sense of ease by Ernest’s seemingly calm words, lazily watched the shorter man. But when Wren had given him space, Ernest reeled back his arm and slammed his armored fist into the side of the knight’s helmet. The sound echoed the shrine, and while his hand certainly hurt, Eygon fell spinning to the floor. Ernest stood there, shaking out his fist fully aware he’d at least fractured something, and shouted down at Eygon. 

“What did I say? What did I say?! If I ever saw your ugly mug again?”

Growling, Eygon lunged from his position on the ground to take out Ernest’s legs. He might take insults in stride, but he wouldn’t let some unkindled ash lay a hand on him without due recourse. Wren cheered for Ernest as she watched the brawl. Despite the vitriol between them, it remained a fist fight. Perhaps, Wren idly thought, because neither of them carried knives. But that was not actually the case as both Eygon and Ernest had at least one knife in their boots. 

A few of the shrine’s itinerant members stood where they could watch the fight. A man with a smooth mask peaked around the side of the largest throne. A pair of thin sorcerers clambered up the steps from below to see what fools would fight so close to the flame. Ludleth, bound to his throne, stared down upon the two unkindled. For the first time in a very long time, there was something entertaining happening where he could see it.

Irina, nearby, heard the fight clearly. Uncertain of the reason for it, she turned her head to listen then called, “Champions? Ser Berenike? Ser Wren? What’s going on? Ser Eygon?”

A soft oh shit escaped Wren before she grabbed Ernest by his collar and tugged back hard on him. His ears still rang from the blows to his helmet. Eygon reeled backwards, hands grabbing the sides of his helmet and tearing it off and tossing it with a clamour. Neither of the men had heard Irina. Both Eygon’s and Ernest’s faces were twisted in rage, but Eygon, facing Wren, quickly saw her fearful expression and dropped his hands. Ernest, confused, followed suit.

“Champions?” Irina’s worried voice echoed through the halls, and the two knights glanced to each other before calling over, “It’s fine!” “A simple spar!” “Everything is fine!”

“Eygon!” Irina’s voice lifted. “Eygon you are here?!”

With a smug expression, or as smug as a man could seem after having been knocked around, Eygon turned to the hall. “Yes, child. I’ve come to check on you.” Ernest, catching Eygon’s gaze, pointed from his eyes to Eygon’s in a threat while Wren drew a finger across her throat. Still triumphant, Eygon rolled his eyes and went to his charge.


	20. Griggs

Orbeck had settled in quite neatly. Another fellow had organized the stones and swept the place he now called his own, though when he claimed it he was unaware of the previous occupant. Said occupant, a lanky man by the name of Melody, had quickly abandoned his claim and set up on the far side beneath the bridge. That man occasionally spoke to him and broke him out of his reveries. It was welcome, for the dampness of the shrine and the lack of proper light quickly pulled Orbeck towards the morose. 

It was hard to focus on his work, and he found himself often sitting with his back to the wall and his mind wandering. When he had taught the girl adequately, he would leave. He would get back to the sunshine and dry air. It was not long into his planning that he heard the jaunty footsteps of the girl who had brought him to such a remarkably terrible place and the heavy footsteps of her melancholic companion. Orbeck closed his eyes in dread as they grew louder and louder.

“What do you think, Ernie? You think we did good? I mean there’s two! That’s good, right?”

“Uh. Yeah Wren.”

“And he didn’t have to walk through all the muck and goat-folk!”

“Yup. Look, Wren--”

“And he didn’t have to deal with the giant crabs!”

Orbeck didn’t move from his spot. Two scrolls… just beyond his doorstep. He’d pledged his service to remain in the miserable shrine when two scrolls had existed just beyond his last station? A fool he was for that. But the girl bounced like an excited dog. Orbeck watched her, and for a moment her excitement was contagious. Unbridled enthusiasm. She was happy to see him, and excited to share something with him, and that affected him.

He almost didn’t notice how the knight looked at him like he was some great living tragedy. Was that pity? Or was it guilt? He shot a glare at the man, an expression he had mastered in his youth, and the knight withered and turned away. 

“Orbeck!” The girl practically sang. “We got you something! Two somethings! And this one even glows!” She turned back to her mentor and pulled two capped scrolls out of a pack he kept strapped to the back of his shield. He leaned forward, eyes wide, as he reached to take the two scrolls from her. One truly was glowing.

“ _ Oh my… _ ” He turned them over in his hands before looking to the girl and smiling. “These were just in Farron woods, you said?” He set one down and immediately popped the cap on the other. From it he pulled a delicate blue sheened scroll. Little flakes of condensed souls fell from it, and he began to skim it. “This,” he nodded towards it in lieu of tapping it. “This bears significance beyond mere recorded sorceries-- this is crystal sorcery, and it appears to be… The Farron Legion possessed sorceries quite unknown to the rest of the world. This details those sorceries, and judging by the… this is… this is definitive proof that one of the Crystal Sages did defect and join the legion-- This is stupendous. I will thoroughly enjoy going over it in detail.”

Wren did want to learn some magic. Just a little. Just enough to dip her toes in, but she knew what she really was… She was a cleric and a miracle worked. But one such miracle was inspiring joy in others. She got a little high from seeing someone else excited, and she lived for recognition. Orbeck was smiling because  _ she’d done good.  _ Or at least she had done well. This was praise. He was praising her. She had to reign herself in when he capped the one scroll and moved to the glowing one. Surely the  _ glowing one  _ would get more praise than the boring blue one.

Orbeck’s mouth hung open when he pulled the golden scroll from it’s container. He wanted to laugh, but his words were lost to a murmur. “This is… this is from Oolacile. This--” He looked back to Wren. “Not even the  _ Dragoon School  _ has a scroll such as this. Oolacile is--” He briefly chuckled, a soft and breathy laugh. “The home to golden sorceries. The Xanthous scholars would be slavering over this. Heysel, in her ridiculous headgear, must have passed it right over. What would they all have to say… What would she do if she knew..?”

“That madwoman?” Wren looked over towards Ernest who was very pointedly avoiding the conversation. She knew better than to drag him into it. This wasn’t his normal melancholy. This was something triggered. The knight picked at an invisible piece of dirt on his glove as he seemed to turtle deeper into his armor. Orbeck looked at Wren then followed her gaze to her mentor. Expression falling flat, mouth drawn into a thin line, he spoke in a heavy tone.

“I’m not your dead friend. I am sorry for your loss-- I truly am-- but your mourning is misplaced.”

A part of him regretted his delivery. The knight, the man, looked to him like he’d kicked his puppy. His eyes glazed over with tears in the short moment it took Orbeck to finish his sentence, and his mouth hung open as if he could no longer breathe through his nose… As tears often flooded the sinuses… 

“I… I uh… no… you’re not. I…”

He dragged a glove hand over his beard and held it over his nose and mouth. If looks could kill, Orbeck would be dead. He would be a splatter on the wall. First the shear grief from the knight would have stabbed him in the ribs and twisted the knife, then the instant rage from the girl would have obliterated him. He hung his head in shame and tucked himself quickly back into his work.

Wren loudly stomped away from him and placed a hand on Ernest’s wrist. “C’mon, Ernie. Let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go sit with Andre, huh? Or bully Eygon? Huh, Ernie?”

“Go ahead, Wren. I’ll… Be a moment. Let me just… collect myself. OK?”

She tugged on him again, but when he didn’t move she left to sit with Andre. Sometimes, she had found, Ernest needed to see her go somewhere first before he decided it was worth following. But Orbeck couldn’t focus on his work with the man so filled with grief nearby. He had inflicted pain in his statement, and while something to that effect needed to be communicated, he had clearly done it wrong. When he looked up from his work, Ernest was still there leaning against the bridge support.

“Tell me about your friend. The one you see in me.”

“I-- what?”

“You are bottling it up.” He met the man’s eyes. The knight’s eyes were warm in color but reminded him of a river bed. “So tell me about your friend, and maybe you’ll see me for me instead of seeing him.”

“I’m not…” Ernest moved closer before sitting on the ground by the man. “I look at you, terrified, because I think I killed the man who looked like you.” Orbeck rapidly blinked in disbelief. “His name was Griggs, and I mocked him. I -- my friend and I found him locked up, and I ribbed him for it. I picked that lock with ease. He was a fairly accomplished sorcerer, so I never did understand how a door trapped him…” Ernest reached to paw at his eye and wipe at tears. “He stayed behind when his mentor left, but when he decided to follow him through Sens Fortress, I never saw him again. I think my mocking him, my ribbing, got to him. I think I killed him.”

Orbeck listened horrified. “So… you’re afraid you’re going to kill me… through harsh words..?” Ernest didn’t respond. “Well, you won’t. I’ve heard enough harsh words and been berated enough times that, well… Jokes at my expense will not push me to do something beyond my abilities. And I doubt you killed your friend.” Orbeck looked across the hall to the lanky sorcerer he’d evidently evicted. “Some of us are just inclined to unfortunate accidents. Or…” He met Ernest’s watery gaze. “Maybe he just left. You said you picked on him? Maybe he just left. Perhaps he lied about his destination knowing that you would follow him.”

He turned back to the scrolls. “But what you and Wren have done for me… Well, you have certainly ensured that I will not die from lack of resources. This,” he tapped the golden scroll, “will contain invaluable information and sorceries. Likely sorceries that even the disinclined may master. Perhaps some that I may be able to share with you…” A tiny knowing grin spread across Orbeck’s lips. “But only if you see me for me. Do you think you can do that? Do you think you can see the present through the past?”

Ernest smiled, eyes still glassy, bit his lip, and nodded. “Yeah. Orbeck of Vinheim, I think I can see you. For you.”

“Good. And Ernest?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise to stay safe.”


	21. Tokens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2nd edition 9/8

“What am I doing?” Hawkwood sat slumped on the stairway overlooking the shrine’s bonfire. Ernest dropped next to him, puffing after a spar with Wren. Hawkwood’s body language and entire attitude seemed to have shifted after the two unkindled placed the Watchers’ cinders upon their throne. Ernest had witnessed the quiet catharsis. Despite choosing to sit out in the open, he found Hawkwood to be a rather private man. Most of what he knew of him was based upon assumption, and he eventually wanted to change that. The old knight took a moment to catch his breath before pausing thoughtfully and shrugging. “I mean, look at her.” Hawkwood waved his hand towards the girl. She spun her sword in her hand, warming her wrist as she waited for another partner. Her smile, the old deserter found, was nearly contagious. 

“What about her?” Ernest shifted and settled into his place by Hawkwood’s side. Ernest saw Wren as he always did. Eager, bright, a perfect warrior of sunlight, and a beacon of hope for those around her. She wasn’t aware of the effect she had, but it was hard not to smile when she smiled. Her youthful warmth and pure heart were infectious. Ernest grinned just thinking about it. She was so very like Solaire and yet so different from him that she didn’t spark an ounce of melancholy in him, and he was keenly aware of how prone to melancholy he was. 

Hawkwood stood, jostling Ernest as he did so, looked down at the knight, smirked, and said in a particularly deep voice, “She wastes no time.” He took a few steps down towards her before drawing his sword. He bowed to her, and she looked briefly up at her mentor, eyes bright with disbelief. Excitement plain on her face, she gave Ernest a vibrating thumbs up before preparing for the match. She raised her side arm in a polite salute. Ernest fought with a greatsword, and she with a spear or longsword, but Hawkwood brandished a bastard sword and a small shield stuck to his arm. She had to stop herself from snickering at the thought of a sad bastard using a bastard sword.

Wren also knew that Ernest would hold back on her. He could cut through her chainmail, but she couldn’t cut through his plating. She  _ trusted  _ Ernest not to kill her, and it made her slack. She didn’t trust Hawkwood with that, but she did know that Ernest would bring her back from any wound the other man inflicted. She lunged forward, sword in one hand and shield in the other, with the intent to poke Hawkwood’s chest and get a gauge for his style. He swung upwards far too quickly and smacked her blade with the broad side of his sword. More astonished than anything, Wren hopped backwards wide-eyed. For a man who did nothing but sit around, he was annoyingly spry. 

Again, she tried lunging for him in a feint then darting her blade around his. She saw a small smile on his face but didn’t let it distract her. He brought his sword down as she slid out of the way-- she would not suffer the humiliation of a bonk on the head. It would be an ineffective blow in battle and would serve only as a reminder to pay attention. She would  _ not  _ give him that satisfaction. As they sparred, Wren began to recognize his footwork. He favored long powerful strides and arcs, and she had no doubt that if he had a proper parry knife, he would be a far more fearsome opponent. Even with a shield, he was aggressive using it largely to deflect and redirect her blows rather than absorb them.

Ernest watched, mesmerized. 

When it was over and both combatants had called it, Hawkwood had, to her disappointment, been far more capable of a sparring partner than she’d suspected. While he had thrashed her once he stopped playing, she’d learned more from him being willing to land a blow than she had from Ernest constantly holding back. She considered it only to be a partial loss for him to win, as she considered the tired and wide smile on his face to be a victory. She knew Ernest would like that. They both hated seeing people give up, but she knew Ernest better than to think his fondness for the deserter was typical. Wren returned Hawkwood’s tired smile with a wide triumphant grin and looked to the old Berenike knight.

Ernest beamed at the two of them, stood, fondly grabbed Hawkwood by the shoulder and gave him a shake, then turned to Wren saying “Good job, Kiddo.” There was a hunger in Ernest’s face, one Wren didn’t quite recognize. A need for something but not a lust. Almost as if he would explode if he didn’t take care of what he needed to. And then she saw his eyes become glassy.

With a huff, she rolled her eyes. “No one died, Ernie--” her words were cut off as he grabbed her in a tight hug. From the corner of her eye with her face squished against Ernest’s head, she watched Hawkwood sidle away as her mentor flailed his arm to try and bring the other man into it, but it was not happening. Ernest would have to be satisfied with Wren alone. She let him have his hug and even returned the embrace, but the moment she could wriggle away and dote on Irina, she would.

Wren found Ernest later outside of the shrine proper. The shrine seemed to sit atop a cliff with a massive mountain range surrounding it in the distance. A road led towards the kingdom of Lothric in one direction, but everything else was great distant peaks. From the outside, the shrine seemed to be a round building with a shallow roof, but on the far corner closest to the edge of the cliff was a great bell tower. When she blocked the sun with her hand, she could make out the massive bell and a small figure beneath it. Climbing the tower was as simple as climbing to the roof of the shrine and stepping into the tower proper where an elevator would lift just below the top. When she stepped off of the lift to climb the last ladder, the wind and the chill bit into her.

But at the top where the wind was the worst, she found Ernest sitting and scanning the horizon. Despite it all, he was without his armor sitting in what she assumed were his underclothes. His shirt was yellowed, his pants were a similar off-white, his feet dangled off the edge in soft canvas shoes, but what always caught her eye were the two pendants he kept around his neck. A golden medallion, so common among the two of them, and a strange dark broken thing like a silver tree holding on to a red stone, but the stone had long since broken and crumbled. 

“Hey Ernie!” She climbed over the ladder already beaming and refusing to let him mope and grow blue. He turned to her, gave her half a grin, and patted the stone next to him. When she sat, she kept her feet on the stone. The horizon was glorious. All about them was pale sky and clouded mountain. Ernest’s hair slipped about in the wind-- locks of his ginger hair broke free of the tight bun to dance around his face. Yet it didn’t seem to bother him.

“Do you know how to tie a net, Wren?” He lifted his face up and closed his eyes. Until Wren spoke, nothing existed to him but the sensation of wind and sunlight. Not Hawkwood, not the Flame, not the deaths of his friends. Just the feeling of the wind through his clothes, the tickling and whipping of his hair, and the coarseness of the cords in his hands.

“A net? Uh… No. Why?” She emulated him without knowing what she was doing or why. It was pleasant enough with the sun on her skin, but it was cold in the bell tower. 

“It’s a useful skill to have, though I rarely employ it for practical things. Like nets. No, I uh. I like to use them to hold small things. Make little memories out of.” He fiddled with the leather cord around one of the golden medallions until it was secure. “Here.” He held it out and dropped it on her lap. “And now you have a memory. When you’re old and hollow, you’ll remember your dear Ernest. Your relatively incandescent friend.” His beard moved with his smile.

She stared at it a moment then realized the significance of it, or at least what it now meant to her. “Aw! Thanks Ernie!” It was trivial, it was nonsensical, it had no place in the practical world, and it was absolutely wonderful. It was the first thing Ernest had really given her, and it was something he’d made himself. She scooped it up, held it out to see his handiwork, and immediately tied it around her neck. She beamed-- Ernest would have described her as radiant. “Here, Wren, let me show you how to make one. You can make something for Irina. Since I laughed at you before. For uh. Writing a letter...”

The sun never set anymore. Wren didn’t know how long they’d sat in the tower with Ernest showing her how a simple knot could be used over and over to hold the delicate softly glowing and faintly warm gem Wren had chosen, but when she finished her “memory” she flopped backwards and looked up at the bell. “So, Ernie… Is that one for Hawkwood?” She poked him with her foot. “Or is it for Andre? Who gets your token of love? That’s what these are, aren’t they?” 

Ernest laid back with her and sighed. He held another sunlight medallion in a fine leather cord that he’d begun to experiment with. “I don’t think I’ll ever have to worry about losing Andre. If he didn’t forget me after all this time... And Hawkwood…” He lifted his head to the sun and closed his eyes, willing his body to find some semblance of warmth in its light. “I do think he is leaving.”

“Ernie I was just picking. You don’t have to--” She immediately regretted asking. She felt that just by mentioning Hawkwood she’d thrown open the floodgates.

“It’s an answer I want to give. I have never been ashamed of love, Wren. And I have loved. I do love.” He laid back to look up at the bell with her. “I love you, Wren. You know this. And I love Irina. You know that. I love Andre fiercely in a way that is different from how I love you and Irina. I know you all love me in return.” He sighed, breathing the cold air. “Most of the people in the shrine I do not worry for. But I worry for Hawkwood, and I want to love him. And… I want him to love me. But we must know each other before we can love each other.” Wren wanted to squirm in the awkward turn, but she simply laid still. “I think he’s leaving. I think he’s going to leave very soon, and once he does…” Tears pricked at his eyes. “I have… never had good luck with people leaving the shrine. The shrine has always been safe but stagnant. No one goes hollow anymore… Well. I won’t have to kill him, even if he does… Even if he loses himself. If he dies. I won’t have to kill him. I suppose that’s the only perk of being unkindled.”

“But…” Wren laid a hand on his shoulder. “Greirat comes and goes… and he’s OK. Eygon drops in and out, and he’s fine… Ernest…” She had her share of undeath, but she’d never had a strong association with cause and loss. Ernest moved a hand over his mouth and nose, warm tears running down his cheeks to his hair and ears. How could he claim to not know Hawkwood after all they had shared with each other? “Ernie, he wiped the floor with me. He’ll be ok… It’ll be ok…”

\---

Hawkwood stood by the flame in the center of the shrine. He knew how to step into it, how it would wrap around him like the wind, and how he could travel far and wide in a way no living man ever could. It was time to move on. Time to make something out of his undeath even if he died for it. Wasting away in the shrine was worse than death, and he had to do something. Go somewhere. Perhaps pay his respects… He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Nerves, probably.

“Hawkwood!” Ernest never sounded like he was shouting, just as if he were talking more loudly. He trotted over to the other man, the two of them standing by the fire. It was rare for Ernest to go anywhere without his armor, but there he stood in the clothing he wore beneath it. Shrunken like a wet cat. Hawkwood chuckled at the thought.

“Ah yes. You had your chance to spar with me, and you missed it. But...” He let his words linger a moment. “Perhaps if we meet again, we may cross blades in a friendly manner.” He gave a slight smirk as Ernest seemed to catch fire-- the embers of the flame burning at his clothes but leaving them unscathed. “Or unfriendly, if it comes to that. I would like to test my mettle against the unkindled who took down the legion.”

“No uh.” The fire danced behind Ernest’s eyes, the cinder burning at his skin and clothing. He blinked, ducked his head down, then stood straight once more. His face was flushed from the perceived flirtation, but the threat that followed confused him. He fumbled with his words, stuttering like a nervous boy, and wrung his hands. “I uh. I’m just uh. I’m going to miss you.”

“Miss me?” Hawkwood’s eyebrows shot up. Of all the people in the shrine, Ernest was the kindest to him, certainly. But Hawkwood was not the sort of man to be missed. He had had no doubt that the shrine would be a brighter place without his constant gloom, but perhaps their backgrounds were similar enough to make them comrades. The knight was only ever genuine, and Hawkwood didn’t know how to respond.

Ernest took one of Hawkwood’s hands and placed the ‘memory’ he had made in it. The knots of the dark corded net framed the image of the sun. “Wren says my aim is getting better. But. I am a warrior of sunlight. Look for me when you need help. None of us get anywhere on our own… And…” A steadying breath. “Don’t you dare go hollow.”

They said nothing after that. Hawkwood’s hand curled around the medallion. He looked down at it, at how Ernest’s hand cupped his, both gloved, and smiled ever so slightly. He bowed his head briefly before looking back to Ernest’s face. His expression was true and filled with worry. Hawkwood nodded almost imperceptibly. He would miss Ernest’s worry, but he didn’t need it. The next time they met, Hawkwood would have Ernest’s confidence. He took his hand away, broke their shared gaze, and stepped into the flame.

The next time they met, they would be equals. 

  
  



	22. Scavenging

Greirat sat bored in the shrine. It was dark, it was damp, it was stagnating. He felt as though his body and soul were withering into nothing with the rest of the decaying stone, but he had an obligation to the man who saved him. From time to time he’d skitter back to the settlement and steal away their fire bombs and trinkets, but it’d become more of a chore than anything. What a single undead did with all of those firebombs was beyond him.

He was beginning to suspect that Ernest simply bought them as an excuse to give him souls. A sort of charity Greirat despised. He was, unknown to him, quite wrong. Ernest was simply incredibly fond of how quickly he could chuck firebombs and how reliably they exploded. There was a deep visceral love for the explosive that pyromancy just didn’t hit. Pyromancy was… spiritual. Firebombs were obscene and fantastic.

One of the various other Unkindled had returned through the flame with an old tome and exhausted words about skeletons, abyss, and a large opened door. He’d listened as the man, a smith named Melody, spoke with Orbeck on the magical implications of dark pyromancy and what that meant for soul sorcery, but he’d quickly lost them. He sat, bored, reorganizing his wares and unable to pass the time with the mages beside him. 

“This place is a bore…” He stretched his hands waiting for something to do, someone to talk to. He thought, for awhile, about stealing from the mage-smith near him. Not permanently, but just something to do while he passed the time. The mage didn’t have anything he wouldn’t give back, and he had no interest in making enemies, but he’d also seen how he’d interpreted the actions of others. Stealing, even as a harmless prank, would be seen as an intentionally cruel act. Maybe the Pyromancer would understand the game of it…

“Ernest it was so pretty!” He perked up when he heard the girl’s voice. Wren and Ernest were a unit, a mentor and protege duo, and if she was in ear shot, then they would both be by soon. “Ernest the moon! The moon Ernest! Irithyll!” He heard Ernest’s deep laughter and straightened his hood and shirt.  _ Irithyll?  _ That would be somewhere new to go. 

Even in the dim light, the brushed steel of Ernest’s armor gleamed. The man’s thick red beard extended far beyond his helmet, and though he was truly shorter in stature, the bulk of the shoulders and the crest on top lent him the appearance of a genuine knight. And, Greirat thought, so did his chivalry. He’d seen first hand the man pick the lock to his cell just to set free another human. He’d heard Cornyx say the same. 

“Ah! Hello! Good work out there, fine work, heh.” He waved the two of them down. Wren beamed at the thief and bounded over to him. “Hey Grey~!” 

“Discovering Irithyll in the boreal valley? All in a day’s work for you two, eh?” He leaned in towards Wren as if sharing a scandalous secret but spoke loudly enough for the approaching knight to hear. “If the tales are true… It’s home to old moon-worshipping nobles… And it should be  _ packed  _ with treasure.” He winked at Ernest, then blushed in mild embarrassment when he remembered his eyes were hidden. “What do you think? Shall I go and see what I can find?” Greirat looked to the man, eager to hear his enthusiastic yes but knew full well he’d likely keep him trapped in the shrine where he was ‘safe.’

“Greirat.” Ernest’s tone was even, his face devoid of readable expression. “I think it’s a terrible idea. I’ve never been so cold and sore in my life. I don’t want to go back there.” Ernest closed his eyes and sighed. “But you’re a grown adult, and I’m not your dad. So what I think doesn’t really matter. Just…” He pulled part of his mustache in between his lips as he thought about the thief. “Wear something warm. No scarves, but something warmer than that.”

“I’ll even put on some socks.” The thief gave a mock salute, a deep flourishing bow, and scampered off towards the bonfire. 


	23. The Gaping Dragon

“Wren. Don’t touch that. That’s obviously cursed.”

The once herald stopped mid reach for a skull goblet on an altar. She wanted a better look at it, but Ernest was probably right. He was usually right about magic. He couldn’t cast a spell to save his life, but he had a pretty good nose for things like this. So she looked at him and dropped her hands. 

“Think we’ll have to deal with more skeletons ahead?” The road behind them had been fraught with the reanimated dead and weird rolling balls of corpses. Ernest had stopped at one corner, turned white, and led Wren down another path muttering “ _ pinwheels. Gods damned pinwheels. Nito you bastard. Pinwheels… _ ” without bothering to explain to her what a ‘pinwheel’ was. 

“Gods I hope not.” He trudged, his steel boots clomping with every step on the damp stone. “But there’s only one way to find out…”

The air quickly grew cold the higher they ascended. Just before they’d been in a murky warm swamp, but Wren had to hold her arms to stop from shivering. But at the top, the world outside, it was like nothing she’d ever seen before in her life.

“Ernest… Ernest it’s so beautiful!” She cried out at the scene she’d only heard tales of. The cold bit her skin, but the sky was so truly dark, the moon so bright, and the stars so striking. She held out her hand to catch a wayward snowflake, and squeaked when it landed on her. Ernest chuckled, but the cold reminded him all too deeply of the painted world. He shook it off and smiled.

Wren danced over to the ledge and scanned the city beyond the river. “Ernest! Do you think people still live here? Do you think we’ll find more people? Not hollows?”

“I don’t know, Wren. Only one way to find out.”

She looked down the road to a long bridge, beamed, and pranced down the path towards it. Ernest followed making sure she never got too far ahead of him, and once they were on the bridge itself he watched her spin and twirl in delight. “It’s so pretty!” She kept saying over and over with such joy. And she was right. The lands they’d been to before this were a depressing castle town, an even more depressing village, a disgusting cathedral filled with literal shit and maggots, and a poison swamp with freaky goat people. Irithyll  _ was  _ gorgeous, and… maybe it would still be alive.

And then Wren’s delight turned to horror, her face twisted into disgust and fear in one brief moment as she spun towards him and  _ saw.  _

“Ernest! What in the gods’ names!?” 

He turned, sword drawn, to see what appeared to be a massive furry lizard beast. It reared and roared, and for a moment all Ernest could see was the torn open ribs, the endless teeth, a deep water and blue stone that wasn’t actually there. Without a thought, without being truly present, he pulled lightning into his hand and launched it into the creature’s chest.

“Oscar?” He shouted to the girl behind him. “What are you doing? Hit it!”

Again and again he pummeled the beast with lightning. It screamed, grabbed him in it’s jaws and flung him into the railing nearly knocking him off of the bridge, but Wren followed his lead, pummelling the creature with lightning until it finally died. 

She stepped over to Ernest, hands shaking and body still filled with electricity. “Ernie… Ernie what was that?”

He looked to her but through her, his mind lost in ages past. “Oscar… Oscar there’s more of them. Gods… There’s more of them. I can’t fight more of them.”


	24. Supper

“What were those things?” Wren stomped her boots as they left the sewers. The images of people gutted open and distended like some sort of centipede haunted her. “Ernest… What is wrong with this place?” 

He looked down at her (he’d taken a few steps upward already), and frowned. “I don’t know, Wren. But… there’s something deeply wrong with this place. I never did explain earlier…” The crackle of a tended fireplace caught his attention. The only flames they had seen thus far had been those of the witches. No one in Irithyll had seemed to care…

They both knew of one person with any intention to travel to Irithyll, and that was Greirat. Smiling at each other, they crested the top of the stairs to find a very dear friend. That friend was not their thief but rather their travelling knight. The warm light of the fireplace reflected off of his tan armor like a pyromancy in a gloved hand. Wren looked at Ernest as they drew near enough to hear the man’s snores. Her eyebrows knitted, she shrugged confused. Ernest chose to answer her loudly.

“Siegward, my friend,” he nearly shouted. “It’s been some time!”

The knight and the herald approached, but only Ernest dropped by the sleeping man. Siegward awoke with a jolt and turned to Ernest. 

“Oh! Oh ho. Excuse me, I must have dozed off… It is rather warm in here. I was just--”

Ernest dropped his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I am always in awe of your ability to sleep anywhere. I would not begrudge a man for finding rest where he can.”

“Indeed… It has been all too long. It is good to see you again, my friend.”

Wren moved to sit next to Ernest and the fireplace, watching the two of them.

“And you,” Siegward began again. “Must be the source of the young voice I heard before. A dear Wren, was it? It is good to properly make your acquaintance.”

She grinned at Ernest before meeting Siegward’s gaze and nodding. “Wren of Mirrah. The one and only. You know, Ernest has said quite a bit about you…”

“Wren no--”

“Oh ho? Good things, I trust?”

“The kindest of things. He thinks quite highly of you.”

“Wren, stop it.”

“Ah ha. Well, why don’t the two of you join me for dinner? And perhaps we can share more good tales of each other?”

“Dinner? Like actual food?!”

“Wren please.”

“I make a fine estus soup. I have some brewing now.”

“You make soup!?”

“Gwyn I know you’re dead but please help me.”

“It’s not quite ready yet. But if you’ve the time to wait--”

“Of course we do!”

“We’re in no hurry…”

When Siegward served the soup and removed his helmet to partake, it was the first time Ernest had seen his face. It wasn’t a particularly special affair. It was no great reveal. It was simply Ernest seeing his friend’s face for the first time. His dark skin, his short tightly curled hair braided along his scalp, his deep brown eyes, his wide smile, his terrible moustache and thick but short sideburns. Siegward of Catarina was a perfectly groomed man. 

Wren was smitten. She wasn’t in love for herself, but she was absolutely taken by the man before them. He was warm, his voice was deep and friendly, and he could cook. She watched her companion and mentor slowly melt into a comfortable slouch as they spoke of idle stories and pieces of wisdom. Ernest’s face softened, the stress slowly falling away, and she wondered why he didn’t seek this man more.

“You know, Ernie, Greirat wanted to come this way. Siegward, have you seen a skinny thief running around?”

The round knight paused a moment hmming and mmming. “Yes. I believe I have. Just before here is a sewer. You came through it. A fellow was pinned by those vile beasts. I swooped in to do what I could, and I believe he escaped. I do hope that was your friend.”

Wren relaxed, but Ernest let out a loud and heavy sigh. His entire body drooped at the news. “Siegward,” he started, his voice tired. “Siegward I could kiss you.” 

“Oh that’s hardly necessary. You would have done the same.”

It was then Wren decided Siegward should be a part of their lives. More so than Hawkwood or Orbeck. It would be good, she thought, for Ernest to have someone who wasn’t some tragic echo of his past life in the present.

“You know…” She began trying to think of somewhat to get them to connect. “Ernest said you took on an old demon with him. He didn’t say much about that, but you sound like a useful guy to have around…”

“Wren don’t--”

“He also said that you saved him in that battle… I don’t suppose that you could spill the beans and tell me how.”

Siegward chuckled then looked at Ernest. The knight in his steel armor stared hard and determinedly at the ground, his jaw set. Even with his usual muted expressions, he looked dour and closed off. The warmth he had soaked in moments before was gone. 

“Well… Some battles are great victories. Some are tragic victories. Sometimes the two are the same spread across different people. And even an old demon’s death should be honored so that we who live can move on with our existence.” He dropped his hand on Ernest’s knee. “It’s the only thing to do, really.”

Ernest closed his eyes and puffed air out his nose. He shifted his own hand atop of Siegward’s and held it there. He said nothing as he turned his gaze to their hands. Wren smiled, excited at the prospect of hearing Ernest bonding with someone that made him happy for once.

“There is a dungeon hidden here somewhere in Irithyll,” Siegward began, his voice darkening. “Below that, the Profaned Capital. Home of the reclusive giant lord, Yhorm. I’ve a grave promise to keep. A duty to fulfill. As do you both.”

“We can--”

“We need to deal with Aldrich.” Ernest cut her off. “We seek the lords, and so we seek Yhorm. If you would have us along, if your duty is not so personal that you cannot have companions.” He briefly glanced to a beaming Wren. “Then we should like to aid you.”

Siegward grew quiet, his face clouded with the dread of future grief. 

“Our duties coincide, but mine is a promise to a dear friend.”

“As is mine.” Ernest squeezed his hand, but Siegward drew it away. 

“Very well. I will seek the Profaned Capital. Should we meet again, then perhaps we can carry out our promises together. Until then…” He drew a travelling mug of brew from his side pack. “Let us make a toast. To your valor, my sword, and our sworn duties.”

“To your radiance, to Wren’s energy, my faith renewed, and our tightly kept promises.”

##  “To the sun, to the flame, and to friendship!”


	25. Pontiff

“I wish Hawkwood hadn’t run off on us…” Ernest sat by the bonfire in the little chapel. Wren snorted then choked on the estus she’d been drinking. “Aww, Ernie, sad he didn’t give you a smooch before leaving?” “I am not your brother, Wren. Do not mock me. Hawkwood knew this land better than either of us. He pointed us to the cathedral, and he told us how to get to the Watchers. He was our mission control, and he moved on. We’re doing this blind, and I don’t like it.” He shifted, cracked his back, and went back to warming his hands by the flame.

“What the fuck was that monster on the bridge? Do you know, Wren? Because I don’t.” He looked across the fire to her. “What happened to the people who lived here?” When she shrugged, annoyed at his desire for Hawkwood’s input, he spoke again. “Neither of us know, but who at the shrine might have?” She groaned and rolled her eyes. “Hawkwood.” “Exactly.” 

“But Ernie…”

“ _ Wren… _ ”

“Just admit you have it bad for him.” 

“... It might be worth chasing him down and asking him for help--”

“ _ Ernie! _ ”

Ernest looked out the door of the chapel. They’d returned to the little building several times in their travel, unlocking doors, cutting down silver knights and the valley’s old guard. He dipped his head down to lament the cold when Wren screamed in delight.

“Anri!” She jumped up and leapt to the open door. “Anri! Anri!” The little knight squeaked when Wren swamped them into a hug. “Anri of Astora! Hey, Ernest! I found someone who can help! Someone who’s not a bitter old ass!” 

Anri stiffened then began to cry. They pulled off their helmet, their dark hair bound tightly behind their head, and wiped at their eyes. “Wren… I…”

“Anri-- what’s wrong? Where’s Horace?” The girl held the knight gently. Ernest stood slowly, walked to them, and wrapped an arm around their shoulder. 

“Come ‘ere kiddo. Sit with us. What happened?”

Anri sat between them, face wet with tears. “I lost Horace. I thought we’d just been separated in the catacombs, but I couldn’t find him. I-- I’ve been dropping prism stones, as we’ve always done, and I know he wouldn’t have left me, but I couldn’t find him. And he’s not here…”

“He’ll find you…” Wren rested a hand on their’s. “Horace will find his way to you… Why don’t you stay with us awhile?”

Ernest dropped his hand on the young knight’s shoulder and gave them a firm shake. “Anri, we haven’t spoken much, but in the last cycle of undeath I lived through, I traveled with a man named Oscar. We were split more times than I can count, but we always made it back together. It’s hard, kiddo, but you’ve got us. We’ll watch your back until we can find Horace.”

Anri sniffed, wiped their nose on the back of their hand. “We’re hunting Aldrich. The monster ruined so many lives… I… I know Horace will be headed his way… We’re-- you are headed out for him too, aren’t you?”

Ernest nodded and squeezed their shoulder.

“Do you know what we’re up against, Anri? Do you know what’s in that cathedral?”

“Pontiff Sulyvahn.” They wiped their face one last time, eyes turning to steel. “We can kill him, at least. Clear the way for Horace. It would certainly ease my nerves to cut him down at least.”

“Can you tell us about him?”

“He’s a liar and a monster, the only difference is he still looked human in the end. That monster took the Dark Moon, usurped the gods, and claimed himself to be a conduit for the moon, but there’s nothing holy about that man. They say he took the Profaned Flame, and he turns his men into monsters.” They straightened and sighed, breath shaking. “The monster on the bridge. That was a man once.”

They sat in silence, Wren watching Ernest’s stone face, until he broke from it and stood. “Well. Are you ready to act in the name of the Dark Moon? I met her, once. Considered serving her, but chose another path. Well the Lord of Sunlight is dead, and the Dark Moon Goddess has always been the patron saint of penance. Let us act in her name. Grab your gear, Wren. We have a man-shaped monster to slay.”


	26. Brass Knight

The Pontiff lay dead with Anri’s sword through his face. The child stood there staring at him until Ernest turned her away and Wren pulled the blade from the body. She wiped it clean and handed it over. 

“I… I think I will stay by the fire for awhile… I will wait for Horace here…”

Wren gave them a hug before she and her mentor left the church. For the most part, Ernest was silent and vaguely dissociating as they crossed the courtyard, cutting down faithful bastards and deacons, but when they climbed their way to the top of a small tower and stepped onto flying buttresses, he froze and came to.

“Wren!” He grabbed her and yanked her back behind the wall they’d stepped from. Half a second later a massive spear plunged into the roof where she stood.

“Ernest what was that!?” She whipped to face him, eyes wide in horror, then spun back to face the metal spear. Instead of answering her, he began to laugh. It rumbled through his chest, hearty and warm. Ernest slapped a hand on her shoulder, smiled, and poked his head around the corner.

“I remember these bastards. Here’s what we do, Wren…”

Wren puffed from adrenaline and exercise. She’d never run so hard dodging the shots of so many great bows, but they lived. They survived, and Ernest had scooped a bow for himself, lovingly holding it and claiming it. He robbed the bodies of their great arrows, pulled the bow back-- a motion that took his entire body to do-- and let the spear fly. He watched it, hand blocking the bright moonlight from his eye, and laughed when it shattered the rose window of the cathedral. 

“Oh Wren… This brings back memories…” He sighed like a man in love. “Oscar and I traveled to Anor Londo to seek the fate of the undead, and the knights of the time had a choke on the buttresses like this. We actually knocked one of them off of the ledge and fled from the other. Then we found Solaire and…” He let his eyes rest, a smile so warm she could almost feel it. “Hmm… You think I have it bad for Hawkwood… You have no idea what I’m like when I’m genuinely in love.”

She giggled, wanting to pick on him, but she couldn’t think of a witty way to do it. “I’m glad you got a new toy, Ernie, but there’s a big creepy door and I want to go through it.” She bounced off, and he followed her.

The path led them to a room he never thought he’d see again. Stone coffins depicting silver knights lined the circular tomb. Wren looked around her and paused at the great statue of Gwynn. Her mouth hung open as she tried to find words. “Ernest is that…” “The Lord of Sunlight. This is… he’s not here.”

He stepped to the statue then dropped in front of it to his knees like a knight before his Lord. Wren waited for something to happen, and when nothing did, Ernest struck the statue. His fist slipped through it as the illusion shattered. She gasped, but before she could register what had happened, he was running through the fading illusion into a long hallway. 

Ernest stopped half way down the long hallway before falling to his knees and then back on his heels. Wren trotted over to him, confused. 

“She’s not here. No one is here.”

“Ernie… it’s a tomb…”

“Gwyndolin. She… We’re in… This is the tomb of the Dark Moon. This is where her Blades rest. This is where I spoke to her.” He turned his head towards Wren but stopped when he spotted a brass clad corpse. “No… No-- Wren move.” He pushed past the girl to the corpse, pressing his hands to the armor and lifting the front guard on the helm. “No. No no no…” Ernest pressed a kiss to the top of the armor’s helm and reached for her hand. He whispered something soft and quiet that Wren couldn’t hear before pulling a silver badge from the hand and placing it in his side pouch.

“Let’s go, Wren. There’s nothing for us here.”


	27. Snow on the Bridge

Anor Londo was a cold and pale shade of what Ernest had remembered it as. They stepped out of the tomb on to a sheer drop to the land hundreds of feet beneath them. Wren looked down at the fall, bit her lip, and looked forward to a large pillar in front of them. Ernest looked to her with a cant of his head, then stepped around her to a lever nested among the partial railing. 

Wren watched with interest as he grabbed it, pulled hit back with all his weight, broke free the gummed up mechanisms, and let it crank back to its resting position. He frowned when nothing happened, but with a scream of metal the pillar began to corkscrew downward. Wren’s mild interest quickly became wide open awe as the pillar revealed a stairway. 

With a huff, Ernest stepped onto it and began to climb. Wren paused to overlook the land every so many steps. She wanted to find where they’d come from, where Anri was if they were outside, where those beast-monsters hid. Ernest wanted to keep his head down and get it all over with. The last time he’d come through, he’d had not one but two of his dearest friends.

At the top of the tower, he still kept his head down. He would still need to push the pillar back upwards to reach the main building. To reach where he’d found his love and fought for the Vessel. “There’s the chapel!” Wren bounced past him to look out over the land. “Ernest! There’s the bridge and--!” He looked up smiled. It was hard to slip into hollowing with her around. 

Ernest stepped beside her and held his hand out to catch the falling snow. There wasn’t enough snow for anything worth while, but he entertained the thought of making it into a ball or dumping it down the back of her hood. She caught on to him, or at least recognized the suspicious if piteous collection of snow in his hand. She squinted at him, a challenge and a threat, and Ernest tossed his meager snow mess off the edge.

“That’s what I thought--” She stopped when the snow didn’t fall. It hit the air level with their feet then scattered. Wildly confused, she turned to Ernest who in turn smiled widely. 

“There’s a dragon nearby.” 

“What?”

“This,” he stepped out onto the nothing. “Is dragon magic.”

Wren froze in horror as Ernest stood in mid air. He drew his sidearm and began to use it to test for solid ground. “I’m crossing, Wren. I want to see where this takes us.” He began to walk away from her, sword swiping side to side testing for resistance and flooring. 

Heights were not so daunting a concept to Wren, but stepping out onto nothing went against everything that kept her alive. She closed her eyes, took a step out, and found solid ground beneath her feet. “Wooaa-AAAH!” She jumped straight upward. “Ernest! There’s! There’s nothing here!”

He laughed and held out his hand for her, but she ignored it to rely on her own weapon. “Oscar and I once traversed a cave with a great chasm in it. It was the domain of Seathe the Scaleless, the crystal dragon himself. He had several thin passages like this. I had to blindfold Oscar to get him across…”

“Oh Ernest-- we’re going to the chapel!” She danced to his side and bounced over to the chapel, frowning at the large but doable fall between her perch in the air and the top of the tower. Ernest didn’t hesitate. He found their path ended at the chapel, so he simply stepped off the edge of it and fell gracelessly to the building beneath. 

Wren dropped down with a roll.

Ernest poked around the corner of what might have once been a bell tower to see the face a young girl gasp at him in wonder. The girl, unbearably pale and covered in feathers, looked at the two of them with wide eyes. The child, clearly inhuman, towered over the two of them despite sitting in a thin chair. Ernest recognized her immediately for what she was. Feathered body, white tail, pale body-- she was a true child of dragons.

“Name yourselves, strangers!” Her voice rang like a delicate chime. “I am Yorshka, company captain of the Dark Moon knights! What beckoned you to such a place?”

Wren fumbled her words, meaningless sounds stumbling forth. Ernest placed a hand on her shoulder to quiet her before kneeling before the child, head bowed. “Company Captain Yorshka, I am Ernest of Berenike, an adherent to the Lord of Sunlight, but I have always stepped within the light of the Dark Moon.” Wren followed his lead and knelt before the girl. “I am Wren of Mirrah.” 

The pale girl listened to them and contemplated their words with a small pout. “You serve Father Gwynn? Or perhaps… No.” She tilted her head. “Fair knights, might I pose a question?” When they said nothing, she took it as affirmative. “How did you come to this place? This tower, this prison, stands tall and solitary, the contraption bridging its lower reaches long unmoving. So... by what path did you here ascend? Are you creatures of the air, or other winged things?"

Wren giggled at her words, and the girl frowned. Ernest looked up to her and shifted backwards. “No, child. We walked. Might I pose you a question?” 

“Oh… Yes, thou may, but I might choose not to answer.”

“Where is Gwyndolin? Where is the Dark Moon? Her knightess-- We found the brass knight uninterred in the tomb.” His eyes darkened in contained anger. “What has become of the Goddess?”

“Oh. Oh I do not know. Fair knight, stricken with illness, my elder sister resigned from the Dark Moon Knights. Then Sulyvahn wrongly proclaimed himself pontiff and took me prisoner--”

“Sulyvahn is dead. You are free to go, child.”

“D-dead? What of my sister?” She stood, looking past them. “How do I leave with you? There is no way down…” Ernest stood, taking the girl’s thin frail hand in his own. “You are a child of gods and dragons.” He smiled, the fluff of his beard shifting and exaggerating it. “If you cannot summon the method to escape on your own, then the two of us will help you. But… I think we have a solution. Wren, do you still have the ring Sirris gave you.”

Catching on, Wren pulled the silver band from her pocket and held it out to the girl. “With this, you won’t break your ankles like my dumb dad here.” Yorshka giggled then paused horrified. “Do you break your ankles often..?”

“Only me. Wren’s better about rolling. You don’t have to worry about that with the ring. But Yorshka.” He looked back up to meet her eyes, his grip on her hand firm. “I will find the Dark Moon. I will not let this injustice pass. Whatever has come of her, I will find her. She would not abandon you.”

“How knowst my sister so intimately?”

“A Warrior of Sunlight fights for all that is right and just in the world. I found my way to her in the first cycle of undeath, and I will do whatever it takes… But first, we need to take care of you, my Captain. If you would have a Warrior of Sunlight among your Darkmoon Knights, I would be honored to take my vows and serve as her blade.”

“Then kneel, ser knight of Berenike, and lend me thine sword.”


	28. Giant Blacksmith

Ernest let Wren push the crank to move the tower upwards. “I remember hearing a story when I was little!” She huffed and put her body into it. “Of the great heroes learning these puzzles to gain an audience with the gods!” The machine wailed in protest as she pushed it into place. The cogs beneath them slipped and rolled, lifting the tower to the level above them. “And that the home of the gods was always bathed in sunlight, but.” She flopped on the crank, tired from her exertion. 

“Do you know what to expect up there, kiddo?” The pillar rose, shaking them. “What do your tales tell you is at the top of this tower?”

She raised her head, brightened once more. “Anor Londo? Home of the gods?”

“Maybe… You heard the dragon child…”

Though Ernest knew he couldn’t expect the Anor Londo of old, his heart still skipped a beat when the pillar came to a stop before a cold and pale echo of the cathedral. Wren followed his gaze and gasped. “We-- We’re really here! Ernest we’re actually here! We’re in Anor Londo! Where Lady Gwynevere bestowed the Lord Vessel to the three heroes of old! To where the Dark Sun blessed those who would relink the flame!” 

She stepped off of the lift and glanced back to him. “Come on, Ernie! Let’s go!”

“Hold on, child! It’s the Cathedral of the Gods. You can’t just… walk in. Let’s… see if the way I took is still open…”

The path leading to the cathedral was long and open, but he saw no archers, no giants, no demons. Ernest walked forward as if in a strange dream. Like returning to his home after decades of abandonment and disrepair, but the cathedral around him was still seemingly maintained. He chuckled as even the stained glass had been repaired.

He was wrong about the silver knights, the guardians of old. He heard the crackle of electricity before he saw the spirit charge him. In the moment his guard was down, he barely moved enough to avoid the skewering blade. Armor grazed, he grabbed the shaft of it and yanked it from the traitor spirit’s hand, dropping his sword like a fool. 

Wren, however, was prepared for a fight. Her faith had long since wavered in the gods, but her faith in the flame burned bright. While Ernest skirmished with the knight, she drew a great pyromancy into her palm and pressed it into the back of the spirit. It screamed, burned, and died. 

Puffing, Ernest nodded, regained his sword, and gave the girl a thumbs up. “To the right, Wren. We should go to the right. There should be more buttresses and another tower… We can get in through there.”

“What about the left? That door is open?”

“I… what?”

He turned and to his surprise, she was right. “I’ll be damned. Alright, kiddo. Left it is.” 

The first doorway led to a secondary courtyard, and the second led to the smithy. Ernest saw the darkened room and closed his eyes, preparing himself. Wren laid a hand on his arm and moved forward. He followed her, scared, deeply afraid of what he would find in the darkened room. He knew that no matter what was in there, it had already happened. The only thing he could preserve was ignorance, yet… If he was ignorant to it, he could pretend it wasn’t true… 

He could pretend that the darkened corpse of a giant didn’t exist. He could pretend that the old fellow still lived tapping away on silver blades and armor. Instead, he stepped into the room and saw the body. He knelt by the giant’s hand, placing his own over the dead man’s. Wren watched, silently as he began to weep.

The sky didn’t change anymore. It stayed in its perpetual midnight. The room grew no darker and brightened no more. She couldn’t make out the quiet words Ernest whispered to the giant, but eventually he stood and reached for something in the giant’s hand. 

The divine coal burned more painfully than the embers he had held before, but he would take it, a last momento, to the only man he knew could do right by it. He kissed the pads of his fingers and touched the giant’s mask. Ernest lingered, glancing back to the giant’s body, as Wren led him up and out of the smithy. 


	29. Saint of the Deep

The grand foyer of the cathedral was darkened. Not even the windows let enough light in to see through the utter darkness. Despite the biting cold, the air hung with the stench of rot and wet death. Wren gagged. “Is  _ this  _ what they mean by the ‘Deep’? Ugh.” Ernest didn’t bother to answer her. He didn’t bother to see if the front door still opened. He set his eyes on the nearest hollowed clergymen and their weakly burning torches. 

With a snarl that did not befit him, he charged. Their blood and viscera coated his blade, his armor, and the floor beneath them adding to the pile of shit. Wren might have screamed his name, but he couldn’t hear her. He spat out his hatred for the fat rotting monstrosities that no doubt consumed their fellow man. Snarling like a beast himself, he tore through their soft ranks. He knew where their “saint” would hide. If the rotten sludge could lift himself to Gwynevere’s lounge, then he would be there. More fitting, Ernest thought, he would die in front of it. 

He would rather slay the monster before the Princess’s Lounge. In the smaller hall where he had once fought Gwyndolin’s knights, Ornstein and Smough. He stopped, briefly, to look upwards to the hallway that had lead to the bonfire all those ages ago. It was darkened, and he could not make out the arch, but for a moment he was in another world.

A gilded foyer with two impressive giants awaiting the command of their goddess and her knights. The light hammering of delicate weaponsmithing and the shining armor of a silver knight and his massive bow. The finest craftsmanship he had ever known in sunlit halls of the gods.

But it was dark now. Dark and covered in refuse. Wren tried to get to him, to bring him out of his ceaseless dissociative rage, but not even a hand on him brought him out of it. Nothing would be able to tear him from it once they crossed the threshold into greeting hall.

It was all Wren could do to keep up with him, but when they came to Aldrich, it was not the Lord that scared her. 

Aldrich was a seeping black mass of bones and sludge that clung to the still preserved body of some god. That god had been twisted, arms stretched in inhuman ways, body flopping this way and that like a grain sack on a stick. The body of the dead god, Gwyndolin she realized, drew a blade and a bow, but still that was not what she feared.

Ernest was not a frightening man. Even when he was serious, there was always the lingering softness behind him. Even when he dealt with Patches, his rage was contained. His face twisted, his lips pulled back in a snarl, his eyes flashing, glassy and wide, his brows knotting upward, twitching with unkept emotion. He lifted his sword, tossing his shield to his side, and charged at the monstrosity. 

_ Bloated like a drowned pig, then softened into sludge.  _

Nothing Hawkwood could have said would have prepared either of them, and nothing Ernest could have done would have prepared Wren. 

He launched himself at the sludge, hacking at the rot with his blade, an electricity dancing across his armor and striking the monster. Wren watched in horror as the sludge curled around Ernest as if to consume him. She charged, unsure how to fight, and stabbed at the dead god. The body was an obvious target. Aldrich screamed, her spear part way through the flesh, and split away from her mentor, bits of the lord left behind. 

Ernest unleashed a powerful prayer, a wrathful prayer, and sent spackles of Aldrich to paint the walls. His hands held only lightning and wrath as he pummeled Aldrich, but nothing he did really seemed to do anything. No amount of lightning, hatred, or solid blows scratched the surface of the sludge.

Wren raised her spear as she watched the body of the god raise its arms and draw back its bow. “ _ Forgive me… _ ” She lunged forward, leaping upwards, and impaled the body of the dead god’s head, but the body continued to draw the bow. Wren twisted, and jerked, and the god broke free. 

The magic of the goddess kept Aldrich powerful, and without it, the “saint” quickly fell to their combined lightning and pyromancy. Wren watched as Ernest continued to destroy the body of the monster. Knowing he would not stop, she collected the cinders and hid them from him.


	30. Watchers' Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mildly graphic depictions of corpses.

“Ernie… Do we have to?” Wren hated stepping through the muck and soft earth of the Farron swamp. She hated how the goat people attacked them without warning, how they’d tried to jump on her and tear her head off, how Ernest had cleaved one in half and taken a piece of her helmet with its torso. So instead they walked backwards from the catacombs. Her lightning and his great blade cutting the reanimated dead down swiftly and surely. 

“You don’t have to do anything, Wren.” They stopped at the entrance of the catacombs with the stairs to the woods and the Watcher’s Mausoleum in view. The dark blood from the distant slaughter still stained the floor and stairs. “But I have to. Uh. Do something. Remember what I said, Wren?”

“That the way we handle our dead indicative of how we treat our living..? Ernie we have bigger fish to fry right now. What are you even going to DO with all of those bodies?”

“Wren.” He glared upwards at the girl. “We are going to put these bodies to respectful rest. The fire won’t go out while we do this, and if it does then so be it. We weren’t going to make it anyways.” He stepped lightly to the mausoleum. “And Wren?”

“Yeah, Ernie?”

“You wanted to know more about my people and our religion. Don’t you think death rituals are an important part of that?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer before he surmounted the peak of the stairs and surveyed the cold carnage before him. The room was hot and wet with swamp air and the steam of the deep catacombs. The bodies, laying in their own blood and viscera, stank of rot and old death. Ernest froze, the smell throwing him back to another time. Another battle. A life time ago. A memory he didn’t quite recall, but a pounding heart in his chest and rapid breath.

Wren had never seen or smelled such a scene, and she balked behind him, her shoes in a puddle of rotting blood. “Ernest…” She tugged on his arm. “Ernest do we… why are… Ernest why…” It was one thing to step into a room full of battle and fire, but this. This was cold and rotten. The hollowed turned to dust and ash when they died, but the Watchers laid there rotting.

After shaking himself of it, Ernest lifted the nearest corpse and laid the body out straight with its head by the wall and its feet pointing towards the middle of the room. The leather was soaked in the blood and bodily fluids that came with rot. The body left a thick dark trail behind it, and it’s motion opened the room to a new terrible stench.

His gloves, he’d realized, had become coated with the filth of a freely decaying body, and it would be near impossible to clean them out. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could soak them in the estus of the flames or hand them to Andre, but it wasn’t something he wanted to continue to risk. Wren watched slack jawed in horror as Ernest shed his armor down to old cloth clothing. He kept the hard leather gloves and boots on as both were replaceable, but the steel and chain he set aside in a dry place.

He was so small, she thought. Already so much shorter than herself, but without the bulk of his armor his height matched his girth. He was still a thick man. He still carried weight and muscle, but she felt like she was seeing a crab without its shell. Naked and soft. Not at all the knight she’d followed for so long. The worst of it, she realized, was how he held the corpses close to his body. He cradled them almost as if they were still alive. The head of one lolled limply to the side against his shoulder, and he seemed to whisper to it. 

He was, though she couldn’t hear it.

_Easy there, brother. I’ve got you. Come on now. Don’t need to rot in a pile, now do you?_

_Hey don’t flick your shit at me. You’re dead. Ok. I did kill you. You get to flick one glob of decay at me._

_Up and over, brother. Try not to lose your foot. Oh there went your foot. I’ll get that for you in a moment._

“Wren,” he pointed to the swords left behind. “Were you paying attention to where these bodies came from? Bring me their swords best you can. Going to mark their graves. Like Watchers should.”

“How do you know…” She wavered, deeply concerned by Ernest’s eagerness to handle a room full of rotting corpses. How could he know the burial practices of the Abyss Watchers? Did he not come before them?

“Look outside, Wren. Who’s swords you think those are? My money’s on Watchers. Saw monuments like that back on Artorias’s grave too. My money’s on those belonging to the first watchers…”

She brought him the blades, and he planted them firmly in the stone with the force of weak sunlight to help anchor them. Each blade at the foot of its owner. Each knife rested in their hands atop their chests. Ernest’s hands were covered in blood, grime, and remains. His boots soaked in the viscera. His clothing saturated with it. Wren couldn’t help but crinkle her nose and suppress a wave of nausea. 

When he turned to her, when the last Watcher was laid out, Wren bolted for the catacombs and made peace with her discomfort. While she was gone, he stepped out for moving air to clear his own lungs and mind. The water of the swamp was nothing to bathe in, but the small fire just within the fortress would do fine. 

Fire burned. Consumed. Purged. Cleansed. He basked in it, clean of the filth of death, and pulled a chime out from within it. Ernest had never understood how the flame kept safe their treasures, but a chime was what he needed. It was a soft pewter thing, perfect for his use, and with a knife he carved an emblem on it. 

It was not, as he had initially planned, the image of the sun. It was not the image of Solaire’s devotion. Nor was it the Moon as he might have done. It was the Storm. It was of a god he had barely remembered, but who his nation had revered. The storm in the mountains. Over cliffs and valleys.

The Storm and the Sun were nigh indistinguishable in iconography, but his intent was there. Ernest did not know the death rituals of the Sun, the Moon, or the Wolf, but he knew that of the Storm. 

Wren sheepishly peaked out from the catacombs as Ernest returned, his armor gleaming with the cleansing flame. “Help me send them off, Wren.” She hopped up the stairs, still deeply unnerved by the bodies that lined the room, and stood next to Ernest. “What-- what do you mean? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to pray for them. Each one gets their own. I want you to pray for them too so I don’t have to think up all of the prayers.” He met her wary wide-eyed gaze. “I’ll get us started. And if you think it’s not enough, well. It’s more than they would have gotten anyways.”

_May the roll of Thunder call you home._

He knelt beside them, sparks dancing across his chime, the bell ringing once, a single clear note. 

_May the Waters find you and carry you._

_May the Sun shine upon your journey._

_May the flames never burn you._

_May the darkness never find you._

_May Sif guide your way through the end._


	31. Profaned

Ernest had seen the lad at the shrine. He hung around Orbeck, hovering over scrolls and dipping about like a wading egret. He wasn’t simply tall, he was  _ long,  _ almost like he’d been stretched _.  _ The young man’s fingers spindled outward, his knuckles resembled knots on tree branches, and the fabric beneath his armor hung loose like it was tailored for someone with more substance to them than he. 

Melody, as that was his name, had been standing half way on the bridge to Irithyll when Ernest and Wren had dealt with the gaping monster. He’d watched, horrified, at the fire and lightning that shook him from his daydream. Two people, a man he recognized from Orbeck and a young woman, left the carnage behind and approached him on their way to the city.

They parted before the church and later regrouped once Aldrich had been put down. The skinny man was jumpy, and every time Ernest looked away, he disappeared. From Irithyll, they found a bridge to a gap in neighboring rock face on a mountainside. Ernest stepped through first as he was used to taking a beating, but no blows came. The rough rock shifted to carved stone and eventually bricked walls, and the air grew moist and heavy with the stench of old rot. He choked on it briefly.

Wren slid around him and stepped about the weaving tunnel. Ernest heard the creak of a metal gate before he saw her pushing on one. Beyond it a weak fire and walls lined with cells. This was the dungeon Siegward spoke of. Ernest paused, uncertain he wanted to progress. Something smelled like the abyss, but he couldn’t place how or what, but he felt weak. He leaned against the wall, and Wren joined him, sinking down to the floor.

A moment later, they heard a woman’s scream, and the air began to clear. Ernest collected himself and charged down the hall, ready to fight, but found nothing but a strange woman in a silver mask face down with incense spilled about her body. He heard the panting of a man above him, and for a moment Ernest wanted to lunge and take him down. But the imprints of the boots matched those of the man who joined them.

The rest of their journey went similarly. Before Ernest or Wren could reach the incense burning jailers in their silver masks with their burning irons, a knife slipped and cut their undeaths short. The spook stayed hidden, and Ernest could not decide what was more horrifying-- the thought of fighting the jailers with their incense or finding their corpses sprawling and bloodied.

They followed the path of bodies until they found their spook leaned against the wall and breathing heavily. There was blood on his hands and arms and soot all about his front, but he was unharmed. He looked down at the pair of knights and giggled. “It really is quite easy to take a life, isn’t it?” Melody rested against the stone and closed his eyes. “Horrifyingly easy… I…” He waved a hand at them. “I need a moment.”

Wren looked to Ernest, concerned about the actions and apparent eagerness of their temporary addition, but he simply shrugged. “You’ve been pulling us along all this way. It’s been your pace. We’re not going to push you.” Wren rolled her eyes and looked at their new surroundings. They were still in the dungeon with carved stone walls and empty cells. The hall split into a larger room from which Wren could smell more of that terrible incense. She popped her head around the corner to see several jailers in habit patrolling around a pillar. It was… nonsensical to her. But perhaps undeath and hollowing did that.

From the other end came a cold breeze that smelled of deep cavern. She turned to see a set of stairs moving upwards, and she snapped to catch Ernest’s attention. He left the side of their spook and joined her, poking his head around to see the jailers, and then sighing in relief at the smell of clear air. He pointed towards the stairs, and Wren stepped as lightly as she could towards them.

The stairs led to a broken bridge that reached out into a massive cavern. Somewhere far above them the sun broke through a fissure in the stone casting just enough light for them to see the vastness of the karst. The two stood side by side, admiring the grandness of the formation before their eyes settled on a stone tower, and beyond that…

“Wren… Wren tell me what you see.”

“There’s a big cave. And. A stone tower that’s fallen in disrepair, but it’s like… It’s not solid walls. It’s arches along it, and it’s pretty big. Beyond it on the far side of the cave is what looks like a stone door and a bowl full of fire. Ernie is that the--”

“The Lord Vessel?”

True to her words, a strange stone tower that reminded him so firmly of the kiln reached from the earth beneath them. On the far side, a broken bridge reached out below them to span the gap, but it crumbled midway. A stone entranceway stood imposing and so deeply similar to the gate that protected the Flame from careless undead, and before it… A large bowl full of flame.

“Lord Vessel? Ernie, you think so? You think the Lord Vessel is the profaned flame? I didn’t know the vessel was so big. You said that you and Oscar shifted it together. That thing’s bigger than… Those look like more jailers around it. Can you see those figures?”

He let out a deep sigh at her words. He was not ready to face that past just yet. Moments later, they heard the screaming of jailers once more. Their little spook was moving on, and so would they. 


	32. Little Witch

Their spook rested against a stone support in the middle of a dungeon foyer. Several jailers lay sprawled along the floor surrounding the support, their branding irons still hot. He breathed heavily, panting and sweating, fingers digging into the cold stone behind him as he slumped to the floor. The incense was poison. He knew it, but he couldn’t move himself. It was all he could to do stay breathing. But he didn’t have to summon the energy to move himself, for the knight and his companion followed after him into the large room. 

“Shit. Kid…” Ernest stepped over the bodies and hoisted the lanky man over his shoulders and into clear air. The girl, Wren, waited for them, and when Ernest set him on the stone, she rang her small chime. He improved immediately and pointed towards the cells along the walls. “There’s a. A ah. Several large feathered creatures in the left cells. A hollow on the far right, and closer to us, a lady. There’s a lady in that cell.”

“Look, kid,” Ernest knew that the man had likely been around the same age as he when they had died, but it was a habit none the less. “You really ought to stick with us. Stop running off ahead. Look at you.” He patted the man’s gut. “You wanna die cuz you were impatient? What are you even doing?”

“I keep forgetting you two are, er. Here. I had a ah. An old friend.” He smiled, looking in Wren’s direction. “They used to say I’d get lost in it. Er, heh, ‘lost in the sauce’. Those were their words. When your whole world becomes that one task. And you focus on it, and you can’t get out of it…”

Wren looked horrified, her eyes wide and brows pinched. “You get caught up in killing things?” Melody raised a finger, then dropped it as he tried to think of a way to respond. “No…” He began cautiously. “I just need to finish a task once I’ve started it. I have to finish one before I can move on to another…” With a sigh, he rested his head on his palm, and his elbow on his knee. “I cleared out the jailers. That was my task. It’s done now. I haven’t rifled through their pockets, but surely they have a key, and there’s a girl over there. If she’s still sane… I don’t know. Seems cruel to leave someone trapped in here…”

Ernest stood and smiled at Wren. “We don’t need a key, kiddo. We have -snrkt- a valiant knight’s skill set.” Wren rolled her eyes as Ernest made his way to the woman’s cell. They weren’t particularly quiet, and Ernest made no attempt to muffle his movements. He knelt by the lock and began his work. The woman within looked more like a black amorphous shape in the corner than a person, but Wren could make out the sheen of rooster feathers on her shoulders.

“Hey,” Wren peeped, nervous at the gamble but excited for the potential. “Are you alive in there?”

The woman turned, and with the movement Wren could recognize a tall hat with a wide brim.

“I thought you’d all but forgotten about me. How sweet. It’s good to know that a skinny little--” Her face became clear in the light. Pale as if she’d never seen the light of day. Dirty from her confinement. Eyes bitter before turning to confusion. “You’re… Please. Accept my apologies for mistaking you for those leeches.” The herald, Wren, took up her attention. For there was a young lady addressing her wearing the garb of those who would have hunted her some time ago. The knight beside her barely registered at all.

“I’ve been called worse.” Wren shrugged, her cape shifting with the motion. “What are you doing in there? They seem pretty murderous out here, so… why’d they lock you up instead?”

“I have been here for some time.” Her eyes were deep dark brown, like pools of endless water at the bottom of a cave. “What is your business here? This is a land of monstrosities, and I am no exception.”

“Awh, you’re not a monstrosity. And we’re going after Yhorm. Or Ernie and I are. I don’t know what Spook is doing.” She looked over to their sorcerer. “Napping probably.”

“Pity, how sweet you are. I am a wretched child of the Abyss. A guilty creature, and a mon--”

“No.” Ernest stepped back and pushed open the gate. “We are all children of the Dark.” Wren stopped and stared at Ernest in mild confusion. The woman stared at him wide-eyed in shock. “We bear the dark sign, and we hold close our Humanity.” He stepped forward and offered her his hand. “I am Ernest, the Devoted of Berenike. This is Wren of Mirrah. You are free to leave this place.”

The woman paused, looking at his hand, before taking it and lifting herself up with it. “I am Karla. I have no way to repay you beyond my knowledge of detestable sorceries that delve into that darkness…”

“You don’t need to repay us!” Wren bounced forward before pulling out a homeward bone and proffering it to the lady. “But there’s at least two other open minded sorcerers who will probably be glad to meet you. If you want to. We all sort of… coelce at the shrine.”

Karla quietly reached out and took the homeward bone, turning it over in her hands. “I assume one of those sorcerers is the napping spook you mentioned?” She smiled, and Wren’s heart began to pound. “Very well. I will see you again then, Wren of Mirrah and Ernest of Berenike. But first I must tend to something. And I… thank you.” 

She ran her thumb over the etched marking on the bone, and in a warm rush she found herself back in Farron Keep. The closest place to where her home had once been. The Watchers had slowly been tainted with the shadows of the Abyss, and it was that corruption that called her. She slowly knelt to the ground and ran her fingers through the muck.

“It’s OK, Momma. I’m ok…”


	33. Yhorm, Lord of Cinder

The lanky spook drug his feet more and more the further they traveled. Ernest was not sure if it was the incense or the blood on his hands that wore him down so, but he wouldn’t leave without something to take back. Ernest had seen him near Orbeck bobbing around him like a bird looking for a bug in the sand. The moment any of them found something academically interesting, he was going to drop it in the spook’s hands and send him back to the shrine.

They marched through a stone tower that overlooked the mockery of the Lord Vessel that like held the Profaned Flame, shattered the guardian stone creatures, and kept moving forward. Ernest chuckled when they reached a cavern room with a floor of refuse. Their spook froze like a cat dropped in a puddle, and after Ernest and Wren had crushed the once-humans the girl scooped the sorcerer up and carried him across the muck. Above them, to his bafflement, was a fully realized chapel. It had a roof and a small tower. It was entirely unnecessary, but it amused him.

He stopped laughing when he saw the creature that slept within.

Whatever it was, it made his spine grow stiff like death and his hair stand on end. He had seen many horrors in his life, and he barely saw what this  _ thing  _ was, but he knew that if he saw it moving, if he actually saw it, he would lock up and die. So he simply turned around, blocked the door, and marched past the chapel. “No.” He raised his hand to stop Wren from poking around him. “Not today. Not. To. Day.” His intense gaze telling her that whatever it was, she probably didn’t want to know.

So caught up in the horror of what that Might Be that he did not register the soft cursing above them or the sounds of a readying catalyst. Wren blindly followed him equally oblivious to it, but they both jumped when the spook behind them threw up a spell to deflect some powerful soul missile. Ernest had had a souls spear launched at him before, and he knew that if he was fast enough he could take out the mage that cast it.

He and Wren charged up the stairs with lightning and fire forming in their hands. Wren had more or less abandoned the miracle in favor of a varied approach. If lightning did not do a man in, then fire would, and together little stood in their way. The man, a sorcerer, screamed under their assault and quickly fell. Little remained of him but a charred corpse. 

“He was…” The spook reached the top of the stairs to survey the damage.

“Like us.” Wren nudged the corpse with her boot. “Some people fall to murder…” She wondered if the man had been acting in defense. If he thought they were going to murder him and rob his body, or if he was protecting something. A heavy weight laid itself upon her chest like a blanket made of lead. Ernest, however, seemed to have no such moral quandary as he set right away to digging through the dead man’s pack.

He smiled deviously and winked at her before pulling out several capped scrolls. “Little Spook…” He brushed an engraving with his thumb. Whether this container truly held the scroll it claimed to did not matter. It would get Melody back to the shrine. “I think you’re going to want this.”

The man’s face lit up when Ernest handed it to him. He whispered a soft “Thank you…” before holding it closely and snapping a homeward bone. The estus of the bone wrapped around him, and in a moment the spook was gone. Ernest let out a loud groan-sigh of relief, and Wren laughed having felt much the same. He rolled his eyes with his entire body, and in doing so he caught sight of an open door just hanging in the wall with no stairs or ladder to reach it.

Wren followed his gaze to it. It was about the same height as the roof they stood upon and five feet away from the edge. Odd, she thought, to have a door like that. “Hey. Hey Wren.” He smiled deviously. “I bet I can make that jump.”

“Ok! I want to see you do it!”

“What? No. You’re supposed to bet against me.”

She cocked her head and squinted. 

“Why? I don’t doubt you could make it.”

“Because-- because it’s silly and fun.”

“But I’ll lose.”

“Oh come on-- just bet something.”

“Ernie, you have a problem.”

“Pah. Fine.” He waved his hand in dismissal before shifting his gear to his back, shaking out his hands, bobbing on his toes, and charging for the edge. Ernest had made countless jumps like this one. He’d leapt many lengths to many ends. Such a thing was easy for him. But that did not stop the roof tiles from giving out on him at the very edge of the jump. It did not stop him from plummeting face first and eating dirt. It did not stop Wren from screaming his name and jumping down after him with her chime in hand.

As she chanted a quick little prayer and as he nursed his wounded ego, a voice came from beyond the doorway.

“Hullo? Is anyone there? Hullo?”

Both Wren and Ernest jumped to their feet, their helmets colliding. 

“Ow! Ernie!”

“Siegward?!”

“ _ Ernest!?  _ Is that you? Is that dear Wren with you too?”

Wren didn’t wait. She scrambled up the wall to the open door way. “We’re coming Siggy! C’mon Ernie. Just climb it.”

“I can’t…” Ernest ducked his head. “I can’t climb…” A part of him knew he was lying to her and himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to try. Wren stared down at him, rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms. “Come on, Ernie. There’s a strong handsome man waiting for you~” It was his turn to roll his eyes, but still he shuffled back to the roof, shook himself, and then darted for the door. Wren saw him charging and immediately backed deeper into the hall to take cover. She expected him to fall again, but this time he made it with a stable landing and a humiliated frown. He shuffled his armor to better hide his face and shame, but there wasn’t much he could do. Wren, though she spared his ego and did not say it, couldn’t help but note how his face was as red as his beard.

“Is everything ok out there?!” Ernest’s face became redder than his facial hair. “That was quite the commotion!”

“We’re coming Siggy!” Wren piped again before darting forward while Ernest hung back and stifled a groan. She merely turned a corner and there he was locked away in a cell. Still in good humor, he laughed.

“Look at me. Trapped like a rat. But you needn’t worry--”

“I never worry about you! I mean.” Wren pressed herself against the bars of his cell and smiled. “You’re the most competent guy I know!” As she said this, Ernest rounded the corner. Siegward chuckled nervously as Ernest approached and stood behind Wren looking utterly wounded. The knight glanced between the girl and Siegward until Wren caught on and turned her head to meet his expression. But even his look wasn’t enough to damper her excitement to catch up with Siegward again.

Eventually Ernest gave in to her beaming excitement and smiled himself. He turned to Siegward, his weak smile barely visible through his beard, and said, “Well Wren said there was a strong handsome man waiting for me, but all I see is a dear friend.” Wren jabbed him  _ hard,  _ but Siegward chuckled.

“Not your type then, Ernest? That’s ok. I understand.” He stood and placed a hand on the bars nearer Ernest. “We can’t all have taste.”

Ernest snorted, ducked his head down, and began to fiddle with the lock. “Siegward, I’m going to miss you when we finally part ways for good.” He frowned as he began to pick it. “Your friendship means a lot to me. And...” He glanced upward. “I might think you were handsome if the father of one of my childhood friends didn’t have the exact same moustache that I know you sport. I can’t help but see your face and think ‘Ah, Mr. Karl’s Dad’.”

Siegward said nothing as the lock clicked open and Ernest pushed open the door. Wren watched as Siegward stepped forward and firmly embraced Ernest before turning to her and hugging her too. She squeezed him though his armor did not give way, and said, “What are you doing here, Siegward? How did you get locked up?”

“Keeping my promise. We all have our duties.” He stepped away from the girl and took Ernest’s hand once more. “You are saints, the two of you. May the sun shine upon you.” Ernest smiled, melting a little. “May the storm guide your way, but Siegward, will you accompany us for as long as our paths converge?” Ernest covered Siegward’s hands with his free hand. “We seek the lord of cinder.”

“What promise must you keep? Will you let us help you keep it?” Wren placed her hand on top of the two of theirs. 

“I promised a very old friend that I would remind him of his duty. That I would not let him falter.”

“Yhorm.” Ernest met his gaze through the slit in his helmet. Siegward’s normal cheer faltered, and his eyes grew weary.

“Yes.” His voice was a mere whisper. 

“Might we accompany you?”

“I would like nothing more.”

Siegward shifted before sitting back by the window of his cell and patting the ground for Ernest and Wren to join him. The girl gleefully set down next to him and beamed at Ernest who then sat on Siegward’s other side.

“Tell us about Yhorm.”

With a heavy sigh, Siegward began to remove his helmet and set it to the side. His usually bright eyes seemed to droop with the weight of his mission. “Yhorm is my oldest friend… I knew him in life and in undeath.”

\---

The profaned flame looked so much like the Lord Vessel of old when they had first seen it, but it was far too large. The bowl that held it was far too decorated. Siegward seemed to hold back as Wren and Ernest cut through the jailers and gargoyles. They stepped through two wide rooms filled with pillaged treasures and murky liquids. The air saturated with the wretched scent of burned and rotting flesh. The three of them were quiet and solemn. They reached a darkened hallway directly across from the flame, and Ernest paused to watch it burn. 

He felt as though he could feel himself in it. The longer he watched it, the hungrier it seemed. Wren stood beside him similarly entranced, and when she reached out as if to touch it, Siegward grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “This way. Don’t play with fire.” She snapped from it and turned. Ernest followed suite. 

Siegward walked slowly but suredly through the darkened hallway. The air grew stale as they approached the end of the hall to a much larger throne room. The ceiling was far above them-- it was clear this was not meant for man or Lords, and Siegward raised his fist for the two behind him to wait. “I must do this part. I must try. Whatever happens after… Please do not hesitate to join me.”

“Siegward--” Ernest stepped towards him, but the man kept walking. He strode with a false air of confidence, for though the others could not see the still giant resting upon his great throne before him, Siegward knew he was there. He could recognize his friend in light or dark.

“Yhorm…” His voice carried effortlessly across the great foyer. “Old friend…” He had come to the end of his journey. His companion of old, his dear friend, Yhorm lifted his head when he heard Siegward’s voice. “I, Siegward of the knights of Catarina, have come to uphold my promise.” 

Ernest and Wren stayed by the entrance waiting for some sign. Wren balked when she saw the great mass of the rising giant. This was Yhorm, burning still, flesh like hot coals visible in the distance. “Speak to me, Lord of Cinder. Old friend,  _ dear friend,  _ are you still there?”

Siegward slowly moved forward towards Yhorm, and the burning giant stepped twice, halfway across the room, before kneeling. They met in the center, and Siegward placed his hand on Yhorm’s great knuckle. 

“My friend… I have a promise to keep to you. I am here to keep it. May the sun shine upon you, my wayward lord.”

“My dear little friend, my precious human being.” Yhorm’s voice echoed through the hall like a ghostly wind. He raised his thumb as if to stroke the side of Siegward’s head like a child might try to pet a bird or other small creature. “We did not understand what we set out to do, and I will not burn again.” He scooped Siegward up, his fingers catching him from behind so that Siegward fell back into his palm. “If I refuse, you will fight me. You will claim my soul, as you once promised me.”

“Yes. I will.” He steadied himself in Yhorm’s loose grip with practiced ease. “We knew it would cause you great pain, and you will not be going alone--”

“No.” The giant held the knight so that they saw eye to eye. “I will not be going. You will have to take me dead. Or…” Yhorm’s burning eyes flared as his face fell. His shoulders rose and fell as if he were trying to contain some terrible emotion. “I will have to kill you…” He pulled Siegward towards him and placed a kiss to the top of his helmet. “Dear friend…” He whispered mere inches from Siegward. “I will make this easy for you. I will draw first blood.”

“Yhorm!”

The giant outstretched his hand and let Siegward fall from it. With a cry, he hit the ground, and the giant stepped back to reach for his machete. “Wren! Now!” The two burst from the front hall charging with lightning and fire. Yhorm reeled from the assault and stumbled backwards. He roared, flames rising, grabbed his machete, and swung at the two of them. Wren ducked down, and Ernest caught it with his shield. It threw him back, but he readied another bolt of lightning. 

Wren, for her part, ran to Siegward and helped him up. With a quick battle prayer, he was stumbling with her to the side. “Wren of Mirrah, dear girl.” She watched Ernest keep Yhorm’s attention with fear as the knight beside her grabbed her arm. “Child!” He collapsed against the wall and pulled her with him. “My sword!” 

“We can worry about it later--”

“No. It is your way to take him down. It is Yhorm’s greatest weakness. Fish it from where I fell. Let the Storm take you. It will bring him to his knees.”

Wren stared at him then glanced back to Ernest taking blow after blow. He’d all but hunkered down with both hands supporting his shield. 

“Go. Child.”

She ran back through the water and the trophies. Yhorm saw her and turned his attention briefly to her. His great blade swung concerningly close to the ground, and she found herself leaping over it without thinking. If she thought, she would have hit it. She wouldn’t have legs to stand on. Ernest took that moment to throw more lighting at the giant, but he didn’t understand why Wren was running towards the center of the room instead of behind Yhorm so that they could pepper him from both sides.

Wren saw the sword glinting in the water-- for all the trash it was the only thing to really reflect the bolts of lightning Ernest threw. She slid, kicking up trophies and debris, and lifted it from the water. Two hands on the grip, it had an odd weight, and Wren felt something within it similar to the lighting Ernest had once taught her to throw. 

She raised the blade to her cheek and closed her eyes. She felt something resonate within her with the blade itself, and she moved as if another force worked through her. Some great gale surrounded the blade and then herself, and she swung it, releasing the wind and the rain. Yhorm dropped his machete as the storm hit. He arched back in pain and let out a whispering mournful cry. As he fell to his knees, Wren lifted the blade again, but the storm did not return to her. 

Once herself, she watched as Ernest charged forward with a powerful stake of lightning in hand and lunge into Yhorm’s chest. The giant reeled back and swatted Ernest away. He bellowed, and as he did so his body caught fire. Yhorm scrambled for his blade, and once he had a hold of it, he turned on Ernest determined to put him down. 

To Yhorm, Siegward was down. Siegward was the one who held the blade, so it could not be Siegward who caused him such great pain. The little bastard with the sunlight in his hand was the source. For the sun and the storm were one and the same, and this little bastard cast lightning unlike he had seen for centuries. It was not so great a leap in logic that he, and not the girl who played with fire, had the storm in his hands. 

Wren felt the wind rise around her again. Her hair stood on end as she raised the blade. There was something holy in this sword, that much was clear, but something that reminded her of mountains and hurricanes. Her homeland was no stranger to the latter, but the former was as foreign to her as this transient land itself. Ernest sparked a thick javelin in his hand and readied it for when he could find a gap in Yhorm’s fury. His face was red with the effort of withstanding and avoiding the fierce blows of Yhorm’s great machete and pained rage. 

She let out a breath and cut through the air.

Yhorm’s cry was short. As he fell to the ground, Ernest plunged the lightning into his chest. Siegward cried out, stumbling on broken legs from his place against the wall. He’d refused to stay put, but it had happened all too fast for him to get in the way. 

He struggled to get to the cooling body. Neither Ernest nor Wren moved to help him so entrenched in the shock of battle they remained. “Forgive me, old friend.” He held the giant’s head between his hands and fell to his knees then his hip. “I could not keep the promise alone…”

As Yhorm’s body cooled, the flames within him turned him to ash. Wren, as she had done before, collected the cinders. Ernest helped him away from the water and the body to the throne where it was dry. Together they removed his sabatons so that they could tend to the broken bones from his fall.

“I am in your debt once again.” Siegward removed his helmet and stared towards the ceiling. He noted that so gentle was Ernest with his broken legs that either he had no more feeling, or the man had done this countless times. “You have my thanks.”

Ernest looked over the remnants of Yhorm’s corpse and Wren collecting the cinders then to Siegward. “What are friends for?”

“Indeed.” They watched Wren together before the girl approached them with the ashes in hand. Siegward reached for his side pack and pulled out three mugs and a small barrel of his brew. “I had hoped that there might be four of us, as the last time there were three of us, but…” He popped the plug on the travel barrel and poured the three of them drinks. “I wouldn’t have made enough for Yhorm anyways.” Siegward held out the brew first to the girl who held his sword and next to the man who bound his legs. 

“It’s only proper to have a toast after such a thing. No friend of mine will have a melancholy send off. It’s not the Catarinan way! So!” He raised his cup. “To Yhorm! To your valor!”

“To you! Siegward!”

“To the end of our duty.”

“Long may the sun shine!”

The brew, as it had always been, was delightfully intoxicating. Wren found herself leaning on Siegward who found himself leaning on Ernest, who found himself leaning back upon Siegward. 

When they awoke, Wren found a small scroll with a recipe on it, and between them they found a short note:

[Good luck with your duty, my friends]

[Home calls me, and I dare not stay away]

[May the sun ever shine upon you]


	34. The Dancer

A knight of Carim did not so easily abandon his charge. Eygon stepped heavily through the streets of the High Wall. He had been raised in the light of the Way of the White, and he could feel the creep of the abyss and the Dark emanating from the empty city about him. A few knights had sought him out, but they were far from human. So far that when he crushed their steel with his great and holy hammer, no blood came from them. No flesh broke. No bones shattered. If any human flesh had inhabited that armor before, it was all shadow now. 

He had walked these roads before, and he paused when he stood between the gate and the chapel. Just beyond the great door he could see the settlement. Where he had locked Irina away to stop her from getting hurt. Where he had taken up post just out of ear shot if only to get a moment’s reprieve. His stomach churned at what he had to do just to keep sane, but the girl had continued to slip and fall into such great depths that he could not keep her safe from herself much less any cruel hands. To his shame, he had simply resigned himself to kill her when she succumbed.

So desperate and resentful had he become that the moment a stranger offered to take her away, he lept at it. They were good people, he reminded himself as he turned from the gates. Good people with good intentions. A pair of lost causes that would not give up, but good people. Irina would, at least, die among peers. Among people equipped to better support her than he could any more.

The sky began to darken as if the sun had begun to sink to dusk. He lifted his face upwards to peer out of the mouth of his helmet, and to his great horror he watched the sun darken from the center and stretch out until only the corona was visible. But it was no eclipse. It was no wonder of nature. The pale blue had turned to flames, and with a great horror he recognized the dark sign. 

Behind him, in the chapel, a woman screamed. Her cry shot through his blood like venom, curdling it like citrus in milk.

The priestess.

Emma.

\---

“Hey, Wren?” Ernest shifted his blade on his shoulder as they made their way back to the flame and the shrine. “Do you remember who we’re supposed to ‘convince’ next? There’s four lords but… I don’t remember who’s next…” The girl stopped with her hand outstretched over the flame. She cocked her head as she thought, brows pinching together and eyes rolling as if the motion would help her think. “Uh…. Luddy? Ludleth? He’s a lord of cinder. Oh my Llyod, Ernest do you think we’re done?” Her eyes shot open in confusion and disbelief. “Ernie that can’t be right…”

“Wait now Ludleth has a nickname? Wait, you know who Lloyd is? Wren all this time I’ve known you, and you’ve never mentioned Allfather Lloyd.” He reached out and put his hand over hers so that they would travel together. All words would be lost in the Flame, so Wren didn’t answer. For now, the flame prickled like a shaved cat rubbing against her leg. For Ernest, it was like his legs had fallen asleep and pricked and stabbed. 

“I mean, I was a herald of the way of white… Of _course_ I know who Allfather Lloyd is. Why is that weird to you..?” She stepped away from the bonfire in the center of the shrine and quickly counted the thrones. Aldrich. Ludleth. Someone… The Watchers. Yhorm. “Well, because, you know. He’s not in any of Irina’s stories. She just has tales about… well mostly Caitha, actually. But she’s from Carim so… she probably knows about Velka and Fina, right?”

He watched as Wren walked up the steps and around Yhorm’s throne then climbed up the front of it and dumped the bag full of his cinders atop it. “Oh I’m sure she does. But…” Wren paused. The absence of the Allfather’s tales had mostly gone unnoticed. She assumed it was a Carim thing, but they had brought Irina other tomes to read, and he appeared nowhere. 

“I dunno, Ernie…”

Ludleth watched the exchange with his chin resting on the back of his hand. It was pleasant to watch the champions work so effectively, but it was frustrating how they spoke as if he wasn’t there. Ernest avoided him, and he suspected it was his appearance, and Wren followed her mentor’s lead. He was so ready to congratulate them and send them off for the final lord when Ernest let out a loud “oh” as he recalled his duty. 

“It’s the prince, Wren. The kid who never burned.” His face turned dark and angry. “That’s… What the fuck is wrong with these people?” He turned to Ludleth who sighed and leaned against the arm of his throne. “You are both unkindled. You have seen the fires fade, have you not?” His small voice echoed like a bird song. “The life of one individual for the lives of the world. The lordling must be raised from birth to fulfill such a role. He must burn, yes, but he has had a better life than either of you ever could have.” The old Lord dipped his head down. “Tis not something I would have wished on anyone, but what must be done must be done.”

The two stared at him in both disgust and horror. Wren hopped down from the throne and tugged on Ernest’s arm to get his attention. When he turned to her, he simply nodded. He knew what she wanted well enough, and she knew where she could find him. While she slipped away to sit with Irina and relax from their journey, Ernest found himself unsure of what to do. It had been a very long time since they’d stopped at the shrine, and he knew that when he turned towards the stairs they would be empty.

With a sigh, he wandered off to be alone at the top of the bell tower.

\---

The monster was old Royalty. Eygon panted and leaned on the shaft of his hammer, sweat running into his eyes. She had not gravely injured him, but he was still barely standing. The corpse of the Irithyl daughter lay strewn across the entrance way. He swallowed, wishing for water or estus, but his flask was empty. He needed to rest awhile before he could refill it.

But by the gods, he had been too late. When he reached the priestess, the floor had already been soaked with blood and water. The woman had laid dying with a strange bowl beneath her. Her gnarled hand reaching for Eygon who had foolishly run to her, and her dying words had been a waste. A redundant plea. Remind her prince that he must be a lord. No word on her attacker. Nothing useful. Just something he had already known.

But something more important to her than revenge. 

Useless, but respectable.

He sunk first to his knees, then to his haunches, and eventually backwards to the wall. Propped up, he could breathe just fine. He could rest and watch the door should someone else decide to make an attempt on his life. As he rested, his breath came more easily. Slower and deeper. He hurt from the battle, and he struggled to focus as so much of his energy had been poured into staying alive and killing that _thing_ before it killed him. 

Eygon fumbled briefly before setting his shield hand over his breast just below his neck. Oh Irina… he’d given her so much trouble. She was a burden to him, but that wasn’t her fault. By the gods he’d burdened her even more than she had him. Beneath his armor, beneath the plate and chain, and beneath the soft fabric of his clothing hung a delicate white ring on a hardy bronze chain. When he closed his eyes, the memory of it came to him more clearly than his present reality.

A doe-eyed Irina stepping away from the ship that had taken them to Lothric across the sea. Though blind, she was not expressionless. So much awaited them, and when the ship had left and they were alone, she removed one of her soft gloves and pulled the ring from her middle finger.

 _“Sir Eygon,”_ her voice had been like chimes, once. Hopeful but timid. _“I do hope you will take good care of this for me.”_

 _“Your naming ring?”_ Back when he wasn’t so bitter. _“For what reason would you give that to me?”_ She had giggled softly before finding his hand and placing it in his palm. _“Sweet knight,”_ She faced him with eyes clouded and unfocused. _“It is how I will protect you. The naming ring of a nun is a powerful thing. Promise me you will keep it. Even if I should fail…”_

_“I will humor you this once, but I won’t guarantee it’ll last.”_

The last he’d seen of her, she’d been sitting with the firekeeper running her fingers over tomes he didn’t recognize. The keeper herself listened to her tales before trailing over the words, learning. How Irina could have possibly been happy to see him after what he’d done-- it didn’t matter. His train of thought cut short with a scream. He jerked up out of his reverie as Wren, a girl Irina spoke so fondly of, stood in the door.

“Emma! What?!” She bolted, and her companion followed hot on her feet. Ernest, the man who had taken Irina away and threatened him on more counts than he probably deserved, skidded to a halt in the water and blood. Wren dropped to Emma’s side ignoring Eygon to feel for life, but there was nothing there but a cold stiff hand. Ernest looked over the corpse of the dancer before slowly turning to Emma and Wren and eventually Eygon. 

“Go on then,” Eygon began. “Get it out. Say your piece and leave me be.”

Ernest watched him dumbfounded and slack jawed. It was Wren who turned to Eygon before drawing her chime and scooting over to him. “Are you ok? What happened? I mean I hate you don’t get me wrong--” He waved a hand lightly smacking her chime to which she smacked his helmet-- the small bell ringing -- and continued the little miracle. “Gods. You’re such a fucking proud bastard. ‘Oooh I’m Eygon, a right asshole. Let me verbally assault the people who are gonna help me. Hoo hoo hoo.’ I hate you.” She glared at him before standing back beside Ernest who was still mute with shock.

“Feel better, girl?” He felt he could stand, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d helped him. “Get it out of your system? Ready to sod off?”

Ernest grabbed a hold of Wren before she could lunge at him. He was equally fond of Eygon as she was, but he wasn’t quite incited to murder yet. “What the hell happened here?” His voice was bland and even. It was always bland and even. It didn’t matter if the man was flirting with Andre or threatening his life, Ernest’s voice was always so damnably bland and even. 

“I don’t know.” Eygon answered honestly. “I came to do some… heh… soul searching, and I heard a woman scream. I heard _Emma_ scream. So I came running, and that--” he pointed to the corpse of the dancer. “That poor wretched beast was waiting for me.” He sighed and relaxed. “I don’t know what killed her. I don’t think that was it.”

“Are you going to be ok?” Ernest began to pull out his estus flask. “It’d break Irina’s heart if you stopped showing up…”

“I don’t need your pity. I will be fine. I am made of hardier stuff than you.” Ernest rolled his eyes and stuffed the flask back in his pocket. “Fine. Die then. I’ll tell Irina you were a bastard to the end.”

“Just get out of my hair so I can rest. The priestess had a bowl. I assume it goes under that statue.” He waved towards the statue behind her chair. “All the others have bowls…” 

With a suspicious glare, Wren took the bowl from Emma’s body and stepped to the statue. A knight, kneeling as if exhausted, leaning on their blade. There was a space below them for the bowl, and Wren set it. She squeaked and bounced back when the statue moved. The blade shifted so that it cut into the neck, and to their mutual horror, _it began to bleed._ Wren stepped back to Ernest before grabbing onto his arm. The blood ran down the stone sword into the bowl, and when the bowl was full a ladder fell down.

“What the fuck. _What the fuck?_ Ernie what the _fuck_ was all of that?”

Eygon began to chuckle. A cruel but warm laugh. “Lothric always had a flair for the dramatic. Knights and dragons. Bleeding statues. Wet nurses as the high priestess. Run on then. Go find out what else this nation holds. I’ll tell Irina you stopped by.” Wren paused and glared at him, but Ernest shrugged and moved ahead. One foot on the ladder, he stopped and dug through his pockets again. He pulled out a small vial, a thing of holy water, and tossed it at Eygon’s lap. It landed, softly, and the two men glared at each other for a mere moment before Ernest continued his ascent.

_Bastard._


	35. The Garden

Ernest had parted from Wren. The girl was bright and capable, but one whiff of the marsh beneath them and she’d turned green. So they avoided that mess and traveled through the castle. Alone it would have been difficult, but with the two of them it was… less difficult. It felt right to him to hold his tower shield while his companion tossed miracles from behind him once more. She’d grown quite adept with her lightning. Though her faith in the gods faltered, she found faith in the people around her just as Ernest did.

She slept with her cape wadded up beneath her head mere inches from the bonfire. She looked peaceful, at ease, despite everything. Despite Yhorm, the sun, the lady, and the Dancer. Ernest wanted to doze, but he felt far too awake. He leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead before scrawling out a note with his soapstone. He wanted to see what sort of firey bastard was at the end of that toxic courtyard.

Standing straight and covering his face with a treated cloth, he headed towards the lift.

\---

He had made a mistake.

Perhaps the knight that stood guard at that lift was there to protect fools like himself from venturing in. It didn’t matter anymore as the abyss had seeped into the poor man. His blood was black on Ernest’s blade. Once again compartmentalizing the horror of cutting down someone who was no longer human, he stepped onto the lift and began to hate himself.

He had plenty of valid reasons to spiral into despair and self loathing, and he was typically very good at dodging that mindset, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt like Siegmeyer. The stench of the mire was immediate and disorienting. He lunged forward and barely caught himself on the elevator’s bannister before suppressing vomit. All of the sewage they’d waded through in Aldrich’s hell hole didn’t hold a candle to it. 

Ernest fell forward out of the lift once it reached the bottom and couldn’t remember what happened next. He had vague notions of blood creatures lunging for him, the toxin fogging his mind, the water weighing him down, his sword feeling like it held the weight of the world in it, being dragged… But he was laying on his side above the muck on a stone floor. A groan escaped him as he shifted, his body protesting the motion. He reached for his sword, but he couldn’t find it. His hand flopped uselessly to his front, and he groaned again. 

_ Gods _ , he thought,  _ I really have pulled a Siegmeyer. _

“Ahh. You’re awake.” His eyes opened through his migraine. He knew that voice. “Roused from the sleep of death?” The man chuckled. “Here.”

He first became aware of the man’s leather boots, then recognized that the shape in front of him had kneeled and… held out a violet blooming moss inches from Ernest. “You’re awake, aren’t you? You can make use of this then.” He weakly took the bloom, stuffed it in his mouth, and slipped back into unconsciousness. 

\---

The second time he awoke, he no longer felt the pain from the toxin. He rolled to his back and looked for the man who’d saved him. A warm smile covered his face as his gaze fell upon the man. “Hawkwood.” The deserter, as he had been dubbed, sat on stone steps leading upward. He was hunched, elbow on one knee, other leg extended, and mostly relaxed. “ _ Hawkwood. _ ” Ernest spoke a little louder, his voice fond. “Look at you.” Hawkwood’s eyes focused on Ernest, his frown deep and creased. He was ready for mocking, belittling, but he hoped for different. He had always hoped for different. He could defend himself this time if it came to that.

Ernest’s eyes briefly closed as he took a long comfortable sigh. He could feel his voice rumble in his chest as it took an uncharacteristic inflection. “A saint you are. This knight of Berenike expresses his deepest gratitude.” His eyes popped open and met his savior’s. “I shall not forget this.” The Watcher sat, face blank, and tried to process the knight’s words. He would attribute it to the toxin, but the affection in the man’s statement was undeniable. With a groan, Ernest rocked to his left then rolled over on his right. 

Unable to think of a way to respond, Hawkwood cut to the chase. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have duties to attend?” Ernest’s face fell at the accusatory tone, but still he stood and dropped himself on the stone steps by the other man. 

“I was curious. Can’t an old man indulge in his curiosity from time to time?” His inflection returned to its base monotone. “Are we unkindled bound so tightly by our duties that we may never venture from them? Perhaps there is a Lord of Cinder in there. I hope not.” He stopped and looked Hawkwood over. 

With a sigh, he looked back to the swamp and sagged. “I’m glad you’re here…” The odd jaunty tone fell out of his voice. “I was worried about you.” 

“Ha. You nearly die from bad air, and you’re worried about me?” 

“Yes. I worry about those I care for. Seeing you here…” He drug a hand over his face tugging at his beard. A few hairs came out in his hand, but he didn’t seem to notice. “You left without a hint as to where you were going. I feared I’d find your corpse or worse.”

Ernest tried to catch Hawkwood’s eyes, tried to hold his gaze, but the other man pointedly avoided looking at him. “I’ve had to kill so many friends. I’ve had to put down so many people. I can’t even name them all…” 

Hawkwood stared forward. While Ernest had insisted that he call on him for help, he had deeply doubted the man. It was easier to care about the people who were around you rather than those who had left. He had expected to be forgotten. Or hated. He had gotten used to both. It was easily done when he surrounded himself with an armor made of vitriol. But now… he felt as though he’d let someone important down. He had, but in order to feel that way he had to care. He had to have had expectations. 

“I am still here, for what it’s worth.” He turned his head, looking downward at Ernest’s feet. An indication he was listening without meeting whatever expression painted itself upon the knight’s face.

“That is worth more than you can know.”

Tears pricked at the man’s eyes, but they did not fall. 

“There’s… a lift near here. Just down the path.” Hawkwood’s voice was muted. “You won’t have to walk through the poison.”

“If it got me in your arms again…” Ernest started in a bought of bravery but stopped himself. His face turned pink as his mind went blank in humiliation. They both stared wide eyed into the distance. Despite this, neither of them moved away. Neither tried to change the subject. They caught in their stalemate trying to judge the other’s intention and emotions. There was more of his old companions in Ernest than he realized, and he suspected he could be a little braver. With a soft chuckle, he started over.

“If it got me in your arms again, I would walk through that mire. I would, however, prefer to be conscious for it. I’d rather avoid the wetland entirely and jump straight to your arms...” He turned, heart racing, to watch Hawkwood’s expression. The man’s face slowly shifted from complete and utter inability to process the situation to fluster. A small smile picked at the corners of his lips as he tried to think of a response. “But,” Ernest picked back up before it fell into silence. “I think the best course of action would be to find somewhere more palatable to talk.”

“I thought you were trying to get in my arms.” Hawkwood smiled, the creases of his frown still very much carved into his face, but still his smile was clear as he turned to look at Ernest from the corner of his eye.

“I would not be opposed to you carrying me.” The knight shifted closer to him. “I may have some weight to me, but you must be a great deal stronger than you look if you were able to move me this far…”

\---

Ernest had followed Hawkwood to the lift, then they leapt from it to the rooftop to escape the stench of the ‘garden.’ It might have been romantic were it not for the abyssal creatures and corrupted knights wandering the hell beneath them. They sat with their backs to a wall and the eclipsed sun behind them. If he tried hard enough, Ernest could imagine they were simply sitting at dusk. Soon the sun would set, and the stars would become clear. 

Hawkwood had pulled a piece of wood from the decaying building and began to whittle at it. Ernest sat with one knee drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped around his leg. “Hawkwood..?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Did I ever tell you about Oscar? The man who saved me?” The whittling stopped. Hawkwood looked out over the courtyard and to the horizon. “At most in passing. Why?” This time he looked up unafraid to meet Ernest’s eyes. 

The knight’s serene smile was infectious. A sort of calm warmth settled over Hawkwood when he felt it directed towards him. “This,” Ernest said as he shifted to pull a long sword from his side. “Is his sword. An Astoran straight sword.” He held it in front of him still in its blue scabbard. Slowly he drew it, the blade shining with a holy gleam, and held it vertically in front of him. “My guiding sunlight…” Hawkwood had seen the blade at his side, but he’d never seen the knight use it. The man seemed to rely entirely on a plain greatsword of foreign make. The straight sword seemed to require a far more deft hand than the old knight had.

And Hawkwood was right. It was weak in Ernest’s unskilled hands.

“I met Oscar at Firelink shrine.” He looked back to the man, smile fading but still fond. “For a century I had watched my friends die and go hollow, but this man had a goal. I decided that I would die and go hollow, but I would do so on one last great journey…” He held the sword out for Hawkwood to take and view. “Thou who art undead art chosen, he said to me. We were all chosen to link the fire.” 

Hawkwood took the blade with great caution. “You tried to link the flame, then. The two of you?” The sword was in incredible condition undoubtedly from lack of use. “And how did that end for you?”

“I linked it.” Ernest grew cold, the air around him suddenly still. “I swore I would snuff it out, but in a moment’s decision I linked it. I linked it to save my friend, and I killed Oscar in doing so.” He quietly took the blade back and slid it into the scabbard. “I understand why the other lords refuse to light the flame. I stepped into it with our beloved in my arms to prevent the curse from taking him, but I.” He stared into the dimming horizon. “I linked the flames, and Oscar, brave Oscar, who had sworn to prevent anyone else from doing as I had done, was caught in it.”

Hawkwood began to laugh. A weak disbelieving laugh. “You’re a lord of cinder. You?” His laugh, spasmous sounds of nerves and fear. He let his head fall. “I have heard a lot of nonsense, Ernest. Why are you pulling this lie?” The knight sank at Hawkwood’s response. “Don’t laugh at me, Hawkwood.” The soft pain seeped through his words. “What do you think a Lord is? Some poor fool tossed on the bonfire like dry wood. And maybe I am mere ash, but I burned. The fire took what it wanted. The Fire took my friends, and spat me out. The curse used me. It uses all of us. Does that sound like a lord to you?”

Hawkwood shifted uncomfortably before reaching out and placing a hand on Ernest’s knee, canting his head, and saying, “I pity you, Lord of Cinder.” Ernest stared at him, vinegar rising briefly. Hawkwood had always sounded insincere, but he knew better. He’d seen him mourn his friends. He’d seen him when he left the shrine.

Ernest knew a shield when he saw one. He knew an emotional defense when he heard it. So he softened and deflated. His own defensive reaction deflating. 

“For a bitter bastard, you’re capable of a great deal of sympathy. You must have been a compassionate man before all of this. I’m sorry. I wish I had known you when you were soft as water.” Hawkwood withdrew his touch and returned to his idle work. “Even now with you as you are, I am glad to have met you.”

They sat quietly for awhile longer, Ernest watching the Angels in the distance and Hawkwood whittling. The knight reached for the man’s arm to rest his hand on his shoulder and catch his attention. 

“But Hawkwood. You. I had a point. One that wasn’t about fire and sorrow.”

He turned towards Ernest, the two of them relatively close together, and raised an eyebrow. 

“Did you now?”

“Without Oscar, before I met my friend, I was in your shoes. The legion of knights I served with, my friends, my family, had all gone hollow. I was alone knowing that the only people I was once familiar with were not only lost but deeply twisted. If I had never met Oscar, if I hadn’t had his support… I would have gone hollow and twisted. All of my compassion would have dried up and turned to vinegar and hatred. The only thing that lead us down different paths was Oscar. But… I would like to walk this path with you too.” Ernest reached for his armored hand and held it between his own, gentle, pleading. “What do you say. Why don’t we help each other in this lonely journey?”

It should have been an easy answer. An obvious yes, but it felt odd. Hawkwood had been isolated from his peers for so long, had run from the Watchers, and succumbed to sorrow in the shrine. There was still plenty to him left, certainly, but he hadn’t expected quite this. He hadn’t expected to be asked along at all. Yet Ernest’s eyes were so intensely genuine. The man really truly wanted him to walk by his side. 

“It seems to me,” he began thoughtfully before placing his freehand over Ernest’s grip. He’d not been so close to the man before. Close enough to truly see his hazel eyes, how the brown in the center of his irises radiated outward into the green, the shape of his thick brow, the structure of his face beneath his beard, the subtleties in the strong curves of his nose, the pockmarks in his skin, the split in his lip... “That we are already helping each other on this lonely journey.” He felt a brief flash of warmth around him as Ernest’s face lit up. For a moment, he swore he saw the glimmer of flames behind the man’s eyes, that the brown had burned, but it passed. When Ernest leaned forward, Hawkwood moved with him. They rested against each other, forehead to forehead, basking in the intimacy of companionship only found among true peers. 

Ernest thought similarly of Hawkwood. He thought on how his eyes danced between sand and gold, how the pale brown curls of his hair occasionally slipped out from his chain hood, how he could see the form of his stubble, the pits and scars of life on his skin, the hollow cheeks and strong jaw. He closed his eyes, content for this closeness. To finally be with someone he could connect with. Someone who had gone through much of the same as he. He regretted that he could not find those words.

Still sharing breaths, Hawkwood pulled his hand away from Ernest’s grip to pull him into his arms. The calm silence turned to soft words and gentle gestures, and kisses that quickly abandoned any illusion of mere platonic intimacy. 


	36. The King and his Heir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for infanticide.

Ernest walked confidently in the familiar presence of a comrade and peer. It was, to him, a radiating warmth that gathered momentum until it couldn’t stop-- until they couldn’t stop. They had started from the same pit, and they could lift each other out of it. Ernest lovingly watched Hawkwood as the man scanned the courtyard beneath them. This was his normal.  _ This  _ was his modus operandi. 

“The moaning seems to be coming from just beyond that wall.” The watcher hopped down from the roof above them. “There’s a building that leads to a darkened path that I can’t quite make out…” He stopped and flushed when he met Ernest’s eyes. “You seem quite happy for a man who’s about to plunge back into Hell…”

“Maybe.” Ernest took a step towards his companion. “It feels good to be back in the saddle. I was never the mentoring type. And,” he jovially batted Hawkwood’s arm. “I don’t have to protect you. I can rely on you to fight without my direction.”

In the fiery light, Hawkwood’s pale eyes looked nearly molten. Ernest could find beauty in anyone’s eyes. He could describe them uniquely and favorably no matter his opinion of the individual. Yet he said nothing to Hawkwood as he admired the texture of the iris, the droop of the lid, the long dusky eyelashes, how the light warmed his skin, and the clarity of thought behind the pupils. 

Hawkwood broke his gaze away from Ernest’s fond scrutiny and looked down to the courtyard. “We can get down from the rubble and continue onward.” He moved away, his face turning red. He wanted to hide the flush that would be so painfully clear on his pale skin. The knight might have been full of absurdities, but his touch was gentle and genuine and it managed to break through even Hawkwood’s firmly constructed barrier.

When Hawkwood dropped down from the roof, there was a soft clatter of loose stones and hard soled leather boots. When Ernest dropped down, there was the harsh clatter of steel armor and excessive armaments. 

As they approached the hallway, the strange moaning grew louder. The hair on the back of Ernest’s neck rose like hackles. The light grew dimmer and greyer as the stone walls surrounded them, but they did not yet balk. The world was full of unnerving shadows, and this was no different. The hallway quickly gave way to a second foyer. Despite being roofed, trees grew along the edges and broke through the ceiling, and from those gaps water ran and puddled on the cold ground.

In the middle of it all stood the source of the sounds. The two men stopped, side by side, weapons drawn but held at ease. The source, a large grey creature covered in fungi, shifted and grew quiet. "Ahh, you ignorant slaves.” A voice, deep and human, came from the creature. It turned, body unraveling into some bastardization of drake. Half formed feathered wings unfurled, and a smooth grey tail slid along the ground as the monster moved to face them. Blind eyes on the face of a weak dragonic abomination fell upon them.

The creature, the monster, the half-dragon cradled his arms as though he held something precious, but there was nothing either undead could see. “Finally taken notice have you? Of the power of my beloved Ocelotte, child of dragons.” 

Hawkwood readied himself for a fight. He lowered his stance, ready to leap and dodge should the creature turn violent. He’d seen the drakes on the castle, and he knew the destructive power of their breath. This thing, this… dragon man… He didn’t know what he was capable of. Ernest, not wanting to fight a person, tried to speak. He raised his shield for the inevitable, but before he could form his words, the dragon-man leapt upon them. 

“ **Well, I will not give him up! For he is all that I have!** ”

Ernest went down hard. The dragon-man landed on him, his weight on Ernest’s legs. Hawkwood balked, for whatever invisible thing the dragon held began to cry like an infant. A child… He shook from it, the loud banging of the dragon-man’s staff wailing down upon Ernest’s shield and armor. He lunged for the tail, stabbing the creature and dragging his blade through his rubbery skin. 

Oceiros, that was who he was. The mad-king of Lothric and his lost child Ocelotte. Hawkwood had idly wondered what became of the mad-king. Of all the rumors of sorcery and dragons, of the dragon riders of Lothric, he had never truly known. 

Bleeding and screaming, Oceiros turned his attention to Hawkwood. Ernest’s head rung from the beating, but he stumbled to his feet. “Priscilla…” He staggered, dropping forward to collect his sword. Memories of the half-goddess filling his mind. Her feathers. Her tendency towards hiding when she wanted to be alone… Her perfect invisibility. 

“Hawkwood! Don’t hit his arms! Don’t hit the child!”

But Hawkwood was already aware. He dodged under the dragon-man’s arms and teeth trying to rake at his gut. Oceiros’ bruised and battered him, but Hawkwood was still standing, still fighting, still dancing. For a brief moment, Ernest smiled. Hawkwood didn’t need him there, but he was there none the less. They could finish this with ease.

It was the first time he’d really seen Hawkwood in action, and he was more than a bit smitten. But it would not last. The gravity of their actions was simply too dark to admire the form with which his companion so gracefully fought.

“ _ Ahh, dear little Ocelotte _ ...” The words, so human and paternal, sent a spike of deep cold through Ernest’s soul. The dragon-man backhanded Hawkwood into the rubble then proceeded to look for the infant still in his arms. “Where have you gone? Are you hiding from me? Come out, come out, don't be afraid…” The once-king now-monster sounded sad, gentle, and desperate. In his search, Ernest ran to Hawkwood and helped him stand once more. 

“You were born a child of dragons, what could you possibly fear?” His words faded into nothing but despair and hatred. Ernest’s world faded to black as he watched the dragon-man raise his hand, the hand that cradled the infant, and then nothing. Ernest saw nothing. 

He did not feel the crystal breath the dragon-man bellowed. He did not see the massive gash it tore into Hawkwood’s side. His mind continued in a loop. Dear little Ocelotte. Child of dragons. Something took over, like running purely on reflex. No thoughts. No accepted input. No recognition. He could not break the loop.

What Hawkwood saw was the rage of a father. Ernest’s screams, wild and bone chilling, mixed with Oceiros’s. Unhinged, his lightning burned around him, arcing from his weapon and body to anything near him. In a swing of his blade, the lightning struck Hawkwood cross his shoulders before traveling into the ground. The mad king wailed in pain, crystal breath spewing forth seeding the earth with cursed daggers. Unable to dodge both his companion and the beast, Hawkwood found himself caught in the line of fire. A crystal shot from the ground carving through his thigh and hip.

“Ernest!” He held his wounded leg fearful both for his own life and that of his companion. The knight, a once faithful man, plunged stake after stake of wrathful sunlight into the body of the dead king. Hawkwood couldn’t say which had dealt the final blow, but Ernest would not stop. He staggered, still bleeding, and grabbed the man and dragged him backwards and down. “I have you. I have you.” 

The knight lurched forward and heaved. He rocked, sobbing, and grabbed himself unaware of the present.

Hawkwood held Ernest as the man tried to retain his sanity. He gripped his head between his armored hands and rocked forwards towards the ground. The infant’s screaming had stopped in reality, but it ran ceaselessly through Ernest’s mind. Something warm and wet ran down his leg, and he was sure it was blood, but he couldn’t seem to care. A voice gently spoke to him, a voice in the here and now, and he tried to focus on it, to cling to it, to push out the horror of the momentary past.

“Easy, Ernest. Breathe. Easy… It’s over. It’s over.” Hawkwood’s words grew quieter and quieter and his mind grew more and more distant. This was not the first time he’d heard an infant’s cries silenced so horribly. It was a simple task for him to partition it away. He could deal with it later or not at all. But part of that partitioned pain was the physical pain from their battle. He was mostly unaware of the depth and severity of the bleeding wound in his side. Of how the crystal breath had cut through his armor, up his thigh, and to his hip. How it gouged him to the bone. How quickly he was reaching his final death.

He slumped onto Ernest, his hold on the man failing. How odd, he thought, how warm the knight was even unkindled. Even undead. 

The limp body of his companion took precedence over the recent trauma. Ernest came to realizing that the blood on his leg was the blood of his friend mingling with his own. He reached for Hawkwood, turning and laying him on the ground away from the gore and viscera, watching his eyes grow distant and dance as they tried to perceive things that didn’t exist. 

The very same look that led him to link the flame. 

Ernest reached for his talisman. He had not healed so grave a wound in this life time, but he would be damned if he did not try. Still, it would be no god to whom he would appeal.

_ My guiding sunlight _

_ My stalwart companion _

_ The sun on your iron chain _

_ The rain on your holy steel _

_ From the depths we delved _

_ To the heights we once ascended _

_ By the bonds that connect us _

_ Our love that bound us _

_ Our humanity that entangled us _

_ Do not let this flesh die. _

He repeated it over and over. His faith in the gods, even at his strongest, could never hold a candle to his faith in his friends. His faith in the gods could never have saved his guiding sunlight, but his faith in that same sunlight would be enough for this companion. The holy circle surrounded the two of them, and the dying man’s breathing steadied. His wounds ceased to bleed, the flesh knitting back together. Ernest sobbed and held him, his face pressed to Hawkwood’s chest. The death of a child and the loss of his friend in such quick succession could drive even an unkindled to hollowing.

Hawkwood eventually awoke in the tight embrace of his armored friend. The man clung to him like a drowning man clung to driftwood, but he was glad for it. He reached his arms upward to hold onto his knight. He hurt horribly and had no energy for grief, but his companion shook and sobbed enough for both of them.

“I am alive. We are alive.” He let himself relax in Ernest’s arms before teasing him “How did someone as soft as you make it so far?”

Ernest choked and laughed weakly through his tears. “I have capable companions.”


	37. Untended

He didn’t want to sleep. His valiant companion rested in his arms still too wounded to walk. Ernest continued his prayer in a stupor, the strength of it waning with his ability to focus and channel it. He rocked with the sway of his breath, his words shifting from a long weaving proclamation to a simple repeated phrase. 

_ Wash away. Wash it clean. _

_ Both the wound and the pain. _

_ Wash away. Wash it clean.  _

_ In the storm. In the rain. _

The battle prayer of the Berenike. A prayer he hadn’t called upon since the hollowing of his nation. 

Ernest’s eyes grew heavy with exhaustion and shock. The world around him grew darker, but he never quite lost sight of it. A figure appeared before him, a trick of the light or a hallucination. Legs crossed, hands held in the lap, iron armor of a Lothric knight. Though white light emanated from behind, the face and shoulders remained obscured in shadows. He found himself standing, Hawkwood no longer on his lap, and he moved towards the figure. He felt compelled to sit with it and mirror its pose. 

As he sat, the figure reached to take his hands. The fingers felt soft as as though the gloves were empty, but they carried enough weight to move Ernest’s own hands so that one held the other, palms upward, as if he were holding a glass ball. From his hands came a great warmth. A warmth like the sunlight of old. A heat like the lightning in his hands. He closed his eyes in deep contentment.

For some time he sat there, still and at peace with nothing but the sun in his hands. When he awoke, he was once more cold, but the darkness surrounding him was all consuming. He shifted, stone pressed against his sides, and found himself on his back with a heavy slab above him. His legs had always been his greatest strength, and with them he slid the slab off of his prison. It grated, stone on stone, until it fell to the side. Still the darkness did not clear. 

He ran his hand along the stone of his small prison. It felt familiar, and when he hefted himself upwards he understood why. Often times when he dreamt and tried to see, tried to open his eyes, his vision grew dark and limited. He was back in his grave. Water pooled around the base of his casket. Cautiously he stepped from it, his sword and shield still with him. His armor, this time, felt as it had just moments ago. The links were secure, and he could find no rust. Water soaked through his boots, and for a moment he wasn’t sure if this was a dream. Hawkwood had been on his lap, and he’d dreamt of the knight, but if he’d awoken he should have been with his companion once more on the cold stone of the garden foyer.

But he could feel himself. He felt his breath in his lungs, the water through his boots. The snarl of a hollow came before the sloppy blow of a knife. Ernest’s armor took the hit with a loud clang. He twisted, caught the hollow by the wrist, and tossed them into the ground. They were gone in a moment, but the sound and the blow still felt real. Realer than any dream. Ernest looked at his hands and flexed his fingers. Had he… died again? Was this a new cycle of unkindled?

He knew where he was this time, for whatever that amounted to. The sky was dark and he could barely see ahead of him, but he knew where he was and where to go. Taking slow breaths and dealing swift merciful blows, he stood outside the archway to the arena where he had once put down the abyss corrupted man.

But the arena was not empty.

Ernest balked when he saw the kneeling figure in the center of it. He regained himself and ran for him, and as he drew closer he saw there was no sword stabbed through the man’s chest. He dropped his sword and shed his shield as he booked it, eager to see if the man was alive regardless of the state of reality. He collided with the statue of the man, his hands on the figure’s helmet. 

Before he could form words, he began to blubber. His hands shook as he touched the armor of the first living thing he’d seen in the new world. He bowed his head as he heard the heavy armor of the man began to shift and fall. The weight of the guardian fell briefly upon him before he caught himself, grabbed the great halberd beside him, and stood peering down upon the wayward knight. Ernest met his eyes and bowed his head. 

Gundyr’s eyes burned with the red of the Abyss. The guardian paused before raising his weapon in challenge. He knew what the man before him was, and he would not let ash seek embers. Ernest understood what was to be done. He understood that this Abyss drenched man and he fought for the same end, but neither could risk the other stopping them. 

He fought with Oscar’s blade. The holy sword shined even in the darkness. Lightning danced across the steel and arced to the iron armor of the the guardian. Without his shield, Ernest took more blows than he should have, but with each blow more electricity flowed from him and connected with his rival. Though he began to bleed and ache, Ernest found himself strong where the champion wavered. 

The man fell unable to rise. Ernest knew what would become of him. “Hold tightly to your humanity, brother.” He brushed the blood off of the man’s back. “I will put this all to rest.”

It was nothing more than a vivid nightmare, but Ernest still felt himself compelled to promises. The body of the guardian grew still and cool, and Ernest moved on towards the shrine. As he had expected, no flame burned in the bowl. No firekeeper stood watch over nothing. No dejected Hawkwood moped on the stairs. No sound of the smithy. 

The entrance to Irina’s hideaway had been walled off, but when Ernest leaned on it the illusion gave way. A woman’s body-- a firekeeper-- laid strewn across the ground with her legs still in the water. He dropped down to her. Perhaps he would carry her corpse to the tower with the rest of her sisters, or perhaps he would lay her out more kindly. He reached for her and scooped her body into his arms, but what looked like two glassy black eyes fell from her hands and rolled down the front of her dress. He paused. 

Awkwardly he reached around her emaciated waist to collect the apparent eyes and placed them in his side pouch. 

He stepped from the halls with the woman’s body in his arms. He suspected he knew where had met this woman before. He suspected this was the firekeeper who had walked the abyss, and she would rest beneath the bell. 

“Well fancy that.” An old woman’s voice shocked him out of his reverie. He bounced and fumbled, sputtering when he turned to see the shrine handmaiden. “A lost lamb wandereth in. Hmpf! Nary a peep from the bell.”

“What-- what are you doing here? Why are you here-- there’s no one else here…”

The woman leaned forward, chuckling. “Well thou shouldst my purpose know. This old handmaid tends to the shrine and provides for thee.”

“But why is it darkened? Where is everyone? Where’s Andre and Cornyx and Sirris?”

The woman leaned to the side, resting her chin on the back of her hand, her voice growing quiet. “Tarry not for long, ashen one. I cannot answer these things, but return to thine home and to thine world, for not a soul here stirs, and the flames have grown dim in the quiet. Lest thou becometh captive like the poor girl in your arms.”

Ernest looked down to the body he held then back to the woman. She waved him away towards the center of the shrine. He had intended to ignore the basin, but he found drawn to it. Something compelled him to place the girl’s body beside it, hands crossed over her chest. The world around them seemed to grow darker as his vision tunneled. He grew tired and slumped to the side. Ernest caught himself from falling, his hand flown out past him into the pit of bone ash. Something hard and sharp jabbed his hand, and he fished out a strange piece of iron. 

He woke in firelink shrine sitting with Hawkwood laid out on his lap. The man was still but breathing. His armor had been torn, but his wound had healed. In Ernest’s hand remained the twisted fragment of iron. He looked to the coiled sword and the flame they’d apparently warped to, and he held the fragment to it. There was a gouge in the sword where the fragment fit neatly though it would not stay. He withdrew his hand, confused but calm, and began to idly run his thumb over his sleeping companion’s jaw.


	38. Gleaming Dream

_ In the storm. In the rain. _

_ Wash away. Wash it clean. _

A heavy droplet of water fell upon Hawkwood’s cheek, waking him. He reached up to wipe it off, but more began to fall. Slowly he came to on the lap of his friend, but Ernest was still and slumped to the side. The man reached for his leg for the wound he had received, and he winced when his fingers brushed the bloody gouge. 

He had remembered Ernest losing it. The man had become a storm himself with all the destructive hatred of a hurricane. He had pulled him from the mutilated corpse of the dragon-man, fallen upon him, then… Ernest had begun to chant. A great act of faith had kept Hawkwood from tipping over into final death.

But now Ernest was deathly still and rain was falling through the stone ceiling. He reached to touch Ernest’s face but withdrew at the last moment for reasons he did not understand or bother to muse on. He was content to believe that Ernest was fine and living. His deathly stillness did not mean much of anything, not, as he noticed, when the ceiling above them gave way to thick grey clouds that flowed like water. 

Hawkwood tried to prop himself up so that he could watch the strange sight. Silent lightning danced from cloud to cloud lighting the distant sky pink and yellow. He was entirely entranced, but whenever he tried to shift, his leg burned with the partially restored wound. The rain began to pool around them, and the chain of his helmet grew cold and uncomfortable. 

The wind, silent, began to pick up until it beat against the two of them, the rain like pebbles battering them. Hawkwood raised his hand to block it from his wound, and tucked his face towards Ernest. It had to be a dream, for he’d never encountered something like this in the waking world, and yet it hurt. The pain was real. 

The wind did not stop. The rain did not stop. But the two began to spin around them like the eye of a storm. 

_ Wash away. Wash it clean. _

_ In the Sun. In the light. _

Ernest was still, but Hawkwood still heard his mumbled prayer. He turned away from his chest, no longer needing to shield his face, and for the first time in his life, he felt the fear of Gods.

Before him, impossibly tall, stood a man. His feet were mostly bare and exposed his hollowed flesh, but the storm danced around him as if it were a part of him. The hair on Hawkwood’s neck rose with the latent energy that surrounded the man-- the Lord. He stood, smelling strongly of ozone, and looked down upon Hawkwood and Ernest. The wind blew both the great white feathery adornment of his crown and the loose fabric of his clothing about. He held a great spear at ease in his right hand, but after a moment’s contemplation, he drew it back as if to impale the pair and drove it down upon Hawkwood.

He thought he was dead.

He should have been dead.

The head of the spear was wide enough to cut him into two, and he felt the blow of the lightning. He arched with the pain, but did not die. His mind went white as he fell back into Ernest’s lap, but his companion dissipated into nothing. For a moment, he feared Ernest had been obliterated, but when he scrambled to look for him, he found his leg no longer hurt.

The Lord stood before him. Stood above him. He pointed towards the ground, now swirling clouds, for Hawkwood to remain before turning and walking into the fog and storm. 

Where he once stood was an echo of himself. A dim phantom whose face wasn’t quite right. He sat, cross legged, with his hands in his lap. He cradled what looked like a glass orb, but as Hawkwood peered at it, he felt compelled to mimic the phantom. 

He sat, legs crossed and hands overlapping, as the storm raged around him but did not strike him further. In the distance, as it cleared, he saw a ruin on a mountain top. A ruin he had seen before.


	39. Waking

At some point Hawkwood had dozed off on Ernest’s lap. The knight had been so still and peaceful that he hadn’t wanted to disturb him, and he wasn’t quite ready to leave the warm comfort of his companionship. When he awoke once more it was to Ernest frowning softly down on him with his thumb running slowly along his jaw. Hawkwood reached upwards, his hand moving languidly and half heartedly before dropping it beside him on the other man’s thigh.

“I met your god,” he whispered, voice low and full of wonder. He shifted, pushing himself further onto Ernest, and hummed. “A god of sunlight and storm… A Lord taller than any man with the storm surrounding him like a flock of birds.” Ernest’s hand moved down Hawkwood’s shoulder and rested on his chest. With a content sigh, the man opened his eyes again to look upon his knight. “Ernest…” He moved his hand across his chest over Ernest’s. The knight looked down on Hawkwood with half lidded tired eyes. The bonfire cast brilliant light upon him, his face haloed in his red hair that seemed to flicker golden with the flame.

He could tell Ernest was frowning, but he couldn’t help but reach up and stroke his beard. The hair was coarse, as was expected, but there was a softness to it like ash on cold coals. Hawkwood felt uncharacteristically affectionate, but when his soft touches weren’t returned or encouraged, he dropped his hand again. With a soft and heavy sigh, he lifted himself off of Ernest’s lap and sat to face the flame.

“What do you mean ‘my god?’” 

Ernest let Hawkwood go. Hours prior he would have relished this affection, but everything he’d seen… He still had the darkened eyes in his pocket. 

“Do you not worship the Lord of Sunlight?” Hawkwood began to fiddle with the gash in his armor. He was still covered in dried blood, but there was no more wound. “I met a lord in my sleep as you… prayed for me.” The weight of the words fell upon the man as he spoke them. “You saved my life. You held me for some time-- I cannot recall how we got here, but you saved my life through your devotion. To the Storm. To the Sun. To the Rain. I heard your prayers, and I saw the god who answered them.”

Hawkwood, beautiful tragic Hawkwood, looked to Ernest with a sort of sorrowful confusion. He feared the man did not know the god who had saved him. He feared that his companion could not remember his life or to whom he prayed. Ernest’s jaw worked as he watched Hawkwood’s expression. His drooping eyes always looked on the brink of exhaustion, but the slight gap between his lips, the way his head canted ever so slightly to the side, how his eyes flickered searching for an answer on Ernest’s face.

“The Lord of Sunlight is dead. I ran my sword through his gut. Gwyn, the first Lord of Cinder, died to three accursed undead. He was never associated with the Storm or the Rain.” Ernest cut his gaze away and faced the flame. “Laugh at me if you will, Hawkwood. But I have killed more Lords than anyone still standing. Mock me if you will, but I and my companions killed Gwyn, lord of sunlight and cinder, and--”

His voice began to shake. His breathing sped up. His eyes danced across the flames as he relived snippets of the battle. Nito. Izalith. Seathe. Artorias. Manus-- Hawkwood quickly put a firm hand on Ernest’s shoulder to ground him. He hadn’t believed the knight before. He’d laughed at the notion, but the power he’d exercised in his rage… Maybe Ernest hadn’t burned, but he believed he’d reached the first flame.

“I met a god. Whoever he was, he answered your prayers. I bleed no longer. I dreamt of the Storm and the Rain. Ernest, I know how to find this god. I know where to start looking.” His expression bordered on pleading and excited. He began to smile before leaning ever so slightly towards Ernest and whispering, “and I want you to come with me…”

He drew closer, and Ernest wanted to melt into him. He wanted to be held. To be intimate. To let another human being shoulder him for awhile. To let  _ Hawkwood  _ shoulder him for awhile. They leaned into each other uncertain of what course of action to take. Hawkwood reached for Ernest’s face and cradled his jaw in his hand. He wanted to pull them close, to brush his lips against the knight’s, to hold him there and share his breath, but Ernest turned in towards his palm. 

Ernest wrapped his arm around Hawkwood’s waist, drawing him nearer and shifting his head so that Hawkwood’s palm held his cheek. He looked to the man, so close to him now. So beautiful. So strong. Reforged after all of his hell. Standing on his own so magnificently. He doubted he could ever stand alone like Hawkwood did. He was ok with that. Ernest knew the value of companionship. But he found Hawkwood all the more beautiful for it. 

“I… there’s something…” he whispered low and soft. “I have something I must do here… and a promise I must keep.” He found himself drifting closer their breath mingling as Ernest leaned into Hawkwood’s ear. Hawkwood embraced him, pulled him tightly against his body and held him as Ernest murmured. He was lost in the warmth of it all. Here, in his arms, was a man who would mourn his death. A man who would grieve his loss. Someone who would sit over him for uncertain lengths of time and plead for his life. 

Here was Ernest, a man who expressed compassion and understanding for him from their first meeting, in his arms. It hadn’t been so long ago that Ernest had professed his affection. That he would be missed. Even then, Hawkwood wore the token of memory Ernest had handed him. 

But they did not move further. They held each other in their arms, their heads nestled into the crook of the other’s neck. 

“ _ Hawkwood? _ ” Ernest whispered, his voice barely audible even to the man he whispered to. “I’m going to bring about the Dark. I’m going to stomp out the flames.” His whisper became breathy as if he were ill. “I need you to know. I need you to know I will do this, and you cannot stop me.” His grip on Hawkwood’s back and sides grew tighter. “You cannot stop me short of my death, but Hawkwood…” The deserter grew still and stiff. After everything they’d been through, Ernest would ruin it all? “Please. Be ready for the dark. The Abyss is not the enemy…”

Hot tears began to run down the knight’s face. In all his time in this cycle of undeath, he had not shared his intention. Wren did not know. Andre did not know. Ludleth would never know. Hawkwood held him, his grip uncomfortably tight. 

“Do what you need to,” he whispered back. He felt as though a cold stone had been dropped down his gullet and settled in his gut. “But Ernest, before you do this, I want you to come with me. I want to meet that lord. I want to understand. I--”

“I am with you.”

Ernest turned and pressed his lips to his companion’s. His hand moved from Hawkwood’s side to cradle his jaw. Hawkwood’s urgent thoughts slowed and came to a stop. In that moment, he would have stomped out the flame itself if it would please Ernest. When they broke away, breath still mingling, they leaned against each other, forehead to forehead. 

“And I am with you.”


	40. Waiting

Wren had abandoned Lothric Castle. When she’d awoken from her nap to Ernest’s terrible orange-stone handwriting and doodles, she’d followed his marker to the swamp. Or she assumed that’s what stink lines and a scribbled fire shape meant. He was convinced that something flaming would be at the other end of the garden. What had his words been? “I want to see what firey bastard’s at the end of that poison swamp”? It didn’t matter. Wren followed the trail of bodies to a bridge overlooking the worst smelling pit of swamp water she’d ever encountered.

Not today. 

She turned around on her heel and marched right back to the Shrine. If Ernest died down there, she would never forgive him, but she was not so stupid as to chase after him alone. With a deep unease settling in her gut, she decided to wait for him. She wasn’t sure what she would do if he didn’t return…

The flames lapped her armor and flesh as she stepped through the fire. It tickled some times, felt like warm water other times, and singed and nipped like an insistent beast waiting to be fed every time. The shrine was quiet and dark just as it always was. The keeper, a girl who had stoically rebuffed her good natured flirting, stood solemnly near the handmaiden. Wren didn’t dare ask her what happened to the souls of people who died with no one else to claim them. 

She thoughtlessly passed the maiden, nodded curtly to Andre, and paused in front of Cornyx. “Hey, Cornyx..?” Her voice was soft and unsure. 

“Yes, little bird? Is something bothering you?”

The dead and skinned beasts always put Wren off from him, but he was otherwise a kind and gentle fellow. She dropped down to his level and thought. “Ernie ran off to do something stupid… I don’t want to do this alone, and I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t come back. I hadn’t thought about it before.” She drug a finger through the dirt before her in an idle pattern. The cool mud felt soft and gentle on her glove.

The pyromancer hummed in thought before leaning back. “You are a remarkably likeable girl, Wren. Even if you lose your mentor, you won’t be doing anything alone unless you wish to. Take a look around you.” He waved his hand. “Irina looks forward to your return. Though she hides away in her self isolation, you are not the only one to seek her out. Why, an old man like myself cannot bear the thought of such a good hearted young woman wasting away. I have visited her to hear the tales of her gods. More often she speaks of her champions. She is quite fond of you.”

He smiled, his leathery skin wrinkling. “She is not going anywhere, little bird. I am not going anywhere. Andre is here until the end. Though, if it came to it, this old man might venture out with his pupil if she really needed it. But I must warn you, I don’t move like I used to. Remember how you found this old bird. Trapped away in a cage.” Wren continued to pick at the dirt in front of her. She knew Cornyx covered his eyes, but she didn’t want to look and meet his ‘gaze’ regardless. “Little bird…” His voice, already grandfatherly, grew soft and knowing. “Whatever happens happens.”

“That’s not very helpful, Cornyx…” She picked at a loose stone and flung it with a flick of her middle finger. 

“Perhaps not, but while I cannot ensure your mentor’s return, I can assure you that I will still be here.” He reached out and placed an old gnarled hand over hers. “Fear the flame, Wren. Guide it, but fear it. Your fate is in the hands of the Flame alone, but you can guide the direction it takes.”

“Thanks, Cornie…” She withdrew her hand from his and stood. “But you said Irina is looking forward to seeing me, so I can’t keep her waiting, now can I?” With a cautious smile, a skip, a hop, and a bound, Wren danced off towards her dear storyteller. While Cornyx had done nothing for her, perhaps Irina could.

\---

As Wren sat beside Irina and listened to the young lady, she dozed. How pleasant it was to lay by the side of a friend and lovely companion. One who didn’t run off while she was napping. “You know, dear champion,” the lady began in her soft melodic voice. “I am so very grateful for you.” She leaned against Wren, head on her shoulder. “I could not have asked for a more wonderful champion. The gods are truly kind and generous. And both with the tales you have told to me and the tales you have brought to me, I truly believe you can hold back the dark.”

Wren flushed and stumbled over how to respond. “I uh! I-- yeah! A pretty lady like yourself? I mean uh! I’m really grateful for you too! The gods brought us together, right? Well uh, I mean… You’ve done so much for me too…” Irina sighed and wrapped her arm around Wren’s. “The gods are truly kind, Wren. They will not take Ernest away from you so suddenly. And if they do, you have the strength to see it through. Even a blind nun like myself can see it.”

Irina heard them first. She lifted herself from Wren’s shoulder, arm still in Wren’s arm, and cocked her head. A moment later, she smiled. “He’s here, Wren. I hear Ernest’s voice. Very quiet, very hushed. And… Another voice I don’t quite recognize.” Wren listened with her before bolting upwards. “ _ Hawkwood, _ ” she hissed back. 

The two men were entirely unaware of Wren standing aside the firekeeper. She glared, arms folded, as they macked at it. That was her Ernie. That might as well have been her older brother sucking face with his terrible boyfriend. Maybe their interaction was exaggerated by her distaste for Hawkwood and men in general, but this was ridiculous. She stood, foot tapping, and waited for them to break away long enough to notice her. 

It felt like an eternity, but it was really only a moment. 

When Ernest broke away from the kiss, he immediately spotted Wren. His face lit up like a dry pine tree struck by a match. “Wren!” He didn’t quite  _ shove  _ Hawkwood away, but there was enough force to escape the previously intimate embrace. “Wren!” He charged towards her, tripping over nothing and recovering clumsily. The keeper stifled a giggle as Wren held her ground. She scowled. Her lips twisted in a frown. “Ernie! You left me! You--” He grabbed her and lifted her, his embrace almost crushing. She squeaked as he tightened his grip. 

“Wren of Mirrah, I have never been so happy to see you in my life!” His tone held flat but his volume rose. “I am sorry I left you, but I am glad you were not there.” “Ernie-- you’re crushing me!” “Wren, it was a nightmare--” “ERNIE!” She jabbed him in the gut between his plates. The blow forced the air out of him, and he dropped her. “I’m sorry, Wren.” He puffed and frowned like a family dog kicked. “I’m sorry.”

“Ernie you left me alone! I was worried about you!” She wrapped her hands around her elbows and glared, tears pricking at her eyes. “Ernest it was stupid! Why did you even go into that swamp-- where did Hawkwood show up? Did you go into that swamp? Why didn’t you wait until I was awake? Did you leave just to-- Argh! Ew! Why did you abandon me?!”

Her last words hit him like a blow to the gut with the debilitating power of a blow to the back of his knee. He hung his head like a child chastised. “I thought I would be back. I had no idea that the swamp was that vile, and it took me down far more quickly than I ever could have anticipated. And Hawkwood drug me out of it.” He glanced back to the man who stood his distance. The Once-Watcher knew he was in no way charismatic and that anything he had to add would simply raise the ire between the girl and her mentor. So he stood, guiltily, staring at the fire.

“The garden effectively gassed me the moment I hit the ground. I don’t know what Hawkwood was doing there, but he drug me out of it. We heard a wailing and went to determine what it came from, and we encountered a monster unlike any other I have ever seen. It nearly killed Hawkwood, and it murdered a child. In front of us. I. Well I suppose I have a prayer chant I need to teach you. I uh. It uh.” He looked back to the man behind him. Hawkwood still stared pointedly at the bonfire, the blood from his wound mostly lost in the light and dark leather of his armor. “It’s a battle prayer. One I’ve owed you for awhile.”

It still hurt. It hurt like hell to have been left behind like that, to have been abandoned and nearly lost her friend. And it showed on Wren’s face. Ernest’s reasons didn’t cover him  _ forgetting her,  _ and he knew it. He saw it in her expression. 

“But Wren, there’s something I gotta do. With uh. Hawkwood--”

“Oh gross! Ernie!” Her face crinkled, the hurt briefly masked with disgust.

“No-- I mean. Well. No. Not. No Wren. No. Maybe but-- no.” He drug his hand down his beard. “He saw something. I saw something. I am afraid of what it might be, and I don’t want you there.”

“Are you trying to protect me? Because I don’t--”

“No. I don’t want you there because it’s something deeply personal.” His gaze had turned stoney. His eyes weren’t quite cold, but they were still. His face was still.

“But you’ll take Hawkwood..?” She wasn’t sure what was worse. He was going to leave her behind again, or that he was going to leave her behind and take  _ Hawkwood  _ with him. 

“Yes, Wren. I’m going with Hawkwood. But,” His defensive stoney posture fell back into softness. “I do want to share with you the battle prayer of Berenike. Will you sit with me awhile?”

“Ernie…” 

“Please, Wren? Sit with me?”

“You’re going to run off on me again… You’re leaving me behind to go galavanting with your shitty boyfriend.”

“He’s not my partner. Please, Wren. Let me give this token to you.” He swallowed thickly waiting for Wren’s answer. “Please… Wren.”

She glared, arms still wrapped around herself, and stared over Ernest to the flame. “I thought you didn’t have any faith in gods.” Her piercing gaze turned to him. “I thought you only believed in humanity and the deeds of your companions. Companions you evidently like to run off on.”

“Wren… You’re right. I don’t believe in the virtue of the Storm, but it was the prayer of my people. It’s a little part of myself. And I want you to have it. Especially if I do something stupid and get myself killed. This is a piece of me I don’t share… It’s a piece of my homeland.”

It wouldn’t change what Ernest had done. It wouldn’t make anything better, but it was still something she couldn’t reject. “You’re not gonna abandon me again, are you?”

“I’ll give you better warning next time I need to do something without you.”

“Like whatever it is you’re going to do with Hawkwood?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how long that will take. It’d be a good time for you to make new friends rather than chasing after this old man, huh? How about that young lady we met in the dungeons? Or Sirris if she drops by. You could take her to Yorshka…”

“I can’t believe you picked  _ Hawkwood… _ But fine. Go have fun. You could do better, but…”

“ _ Wren. _ ”

“You could…”

“Don’t be so quick to judge, Wren. I was just like him before I met Oscar.”

As Andre worked on the maintenance of Ernest’s armor and the repair of Hawkwood’s, the girl and her knight sat overlooking the mountains. For every phrase he spoke, she repeated it twice.

_ \-- _

_ Wash away. Wash it clean. _

_ Both the wound and the pain. _

_ Wash away. Wash it clean.  _

_ In the storm. In the rain. _

_ \-- _

_ The River flows. Free and clear. _

_ The snow falls. Soft and weak. _

_ The cliff breaks. Sharp and sheer.  _

_ The Sun shines. Stark and bleak. _

_ \-- _

_ By the Storm. _

_ By the Gale. _

_ Wash Away. Wash it clean. _

_ The wounds and the pain. _

_ Wash Away. _

_ Wash Away. _

_ Wash Away. _


	41. Secret Passages of Lothric Castle

Wren was angry and hurt. Ernest had left her behind to once more run off with his shitty boyfriend, and he left her behind. What did he expect her to do? Sit at Firelink Shrine and wait for him to come back? The Fire was fading-- the sky had a great gaping wound in it, and he had run off with  _ Hawkwood  _ to do something ‘deeply personal.’ Something he didn’t want her there for. And that hurt. They were a team. They were partners. She’d faithfully had his back this whole time, but now that he had something  _ deeply personal  _ to attend to… He abandoned her again.

Well they had a mission to do! It didn’t matter if they had personal things they wanted to wrap up-- the world was falling to pieces. She reached out her hand to the flame while Ernest and Hawkwood still sat outside the shrine speaking in hushed words. The fire licked her gauntlet, teasing the leather before swallowing her. Traveling through the Flame was always a gamble. Sure she would get to where she wanted to, but some days it felt like a hungry dog chewing on her and others it felt like a warm blanket with an insistent kitten attacking her toes. 

Today it bit her.

She stepped out of it in Lothric Castle where Ernest had abandoned her before. She kicked at it as the tongues of fire clung to her boots. Her foot collided with the coiled sword with a soft clunk and a loud curse. As she stepped away still facing the bonfire, her leg caught on something soft, and she tumbled backwards. With angry tears in her eyes, she hit the ground.

“Young lady, what’s wrong?” She dropped her fist into the ground beside her before turning to the source of the voice. Her leg was still bent over Gotthard’s knee, though the man did not make any move to do much about it. His face crinkled in concern, small frown and gentle eyes. “What happened?”

“He left me!” She rolled back to her feet, her hand nearly smacking the old hunter as she did so. “Ernest left me behind! He--” her hands flailed about her as she tried to adequately describe her frustration. “I was just napping, and the old bastard decided he wanted to run off to that awful swamp thing!” A jab in the direction of the garden. “And when I wake up, he’s gone! He leaves a stupid little note, but he doesn’t come back, and I’m not going down there! It smells like death! I know what death smells like!” Tears trickled down her eyes. “So when I give up on him thinking he’s dead or forgotten me--” her voice cracked. “I go back to the shrine, and I cry with my friend. The bastard comes back to the shrine and has the gall to-- the gall to…” 

Her voice broke. She slumped forward, sobbing and staring off at the far wall. Gotthard stood and slowly and carefully wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “There, there dear girl.” She quickly latched on to him and sobbed into his shoulder. The coarse cloth of his cape took most of her tears, but she couldn’t help but shudder and sob.

“He came back… in that awful man’s arms. Hawkwood. He was kissing him… I thought he might be dead, and instead he’s just sucking face. Couldn’t tell me he was fine… just… ran off… Like a fuckin tom cat.”

“Why are you alone now, dear child?”

“Cuz he ran off with Hawkwood again…” 

Gotthard waited for Wren to pull away from the hug before he released her. He had no children of his own, but he had seen through several generations of royalty. Some monarchs might as well have been his own so deeply tied to the families was he. He knew how to properly give a hug. Wren didn’t realize that his hug was a practiced one, but it was a warm and genuine one, and that’s all she needed.

“Do you think he means to abandon you again? Or do you think this might be something far more simple?” The black hand was in no way condescending. He had no intention to lead Wren to any specific conclusion, but it was important to him to have a proper understanding of the situation. And so it was that Wren sighed and let go of him.

“I… No. I mean.” She waved her hand half heartedly. “I guess… No. I think they’re just sucking face again. But that’s not much better-- I mean. I guess it is. I’m just…” She slumped and dropped her face back onto Gotthard’s shoulder. “We’re a team, and he left me behind. Then he left me again to go run off with that awful man. He’s  _ awful  _ Gotthard. Bitter and mean. A defeatist. I don’t know what Ernie sees in him. Why he couldn’t latch on to someone decent like  _ you  _ or  _ Siegward.  _ Why  _ Hawkwood? _ ”

Gotthard chuckled as she vented. He placed his hands on her shoulders and held her once more as she simply rested her head against him. “I’m flattered you think I’m decent. You have every right in the world to be angry, dear child of mine.” She leaned once more into his arms and sighed emotionally exhausted. “I won’t defend him for abandoning you.” He stroked the back of her head. “What he did was thoughtless and irresponsible. It sounds to me like he needed space, and he took the first opportunity without considering the repercussions.” 

Wren responded with a loud and irritated groan. “He left me…” She bonked her head against his shoulder. “He just… ran off…” 

“I know, I know. And you came here on your own. So what did you plan to do?” He held her back far enough to look her in the eyes. Gotthard raised a brow as he waited for her answer as if he had caught her in hypocrisy. 

“I don’t know…” She slouched. “I guess… If he was going to run off, then I wasn’t going to wait for him, but…” Her chest hurt and briefly spasmed in a hiccup. “But we’re a team… Even if he forgot…”

“As it so happens, dear child, I know how to reach the Princes. There are several places within these walls I must visit before I can make that final trek. Would you, perhaps, be willing to accompany me?” He held out his hand between them, palm upwards and inviting. Wren looked down at it for a moment. The old leather was cracked and worn but otherwise well taken care of. She couldn’t tell how old it really was or how well taken care of it had been. Was it old and well maintained and simply degrading with the inevitable, or was his leather armor expendable? Was she expendable?

She shook her head at the thought unsure of where it had come from then set her hand on top of his. “Yeah. I’d like that.” His fingers wrapped around her hand in a firm but largely reassuring grip. His cheeks and eyes crinkled with his smile, and she thought for a moment that he sparkled. “Good. Good. Now then, you see that hallway behind you?” She turned. Three doors let out of the room. The first, the one she’d initially come in through. The second, an open door that lead to the foyer where Emma had died. The third, a hallway she had not yet explored but could smell incense coming through. “That hallway leads to a holy place where some of our old heroes were once buried. If the knights have any sense left in them, they will protect it fiercely. And…” He leaned around her to peek into it. “Yes. They are still marching their old patrols. We’ll be skipping that.”

Wren opened her mouth as if to speak, but Gotthard raised a finger. “This seemingly solid wall here?” He pointed to the only wall without a door in it. “False. Well. There’s a trick to it. You’ll find this old castle is filled with many secret passages. How else would the servants get about in celebrations? Or old monarchs slip away to their lovers?” He winked, and Wren’s face crinkled at the brief thought of him using the passages for less than noble tasks, but then her face lit up. 

“Secret passages! Oh really? And you’re going to show me?” She wished Ernest were there for this, but he was off galavanting and probably more with his horrible not-boyfriend. Gotthard answered her not with words but by turning to the wall. It was, much like the rest of the room about them, covered in various decorations befitting a royal castle hall. In the middle was a slight recess with an altar upon which rested a sword. Wren watched eagerly and assumed that the altar had something to do with the secret, but she would be disappointed. 

Instead, Gotthard lifted up a thick rug from the floor in front of the altar, kneeled down, and pressed a thin key into a gap in the stone tiles. When he turned it, the tile popped up so that he could lift it like a hatch. “Ready to learn how the servantry got about?” Excited, Wren nodded, and when Gotthard waved his hand, she dropped down the hole. 

It only fell about six feet, and after she landed she noticed the ladder that lead back out of it. Gotthard followed, using the ladder and closing the hatch behind them. When he did, it was immediately dark. Oppressively so. She called forth her flame to dance in her hand and light the way, and as she did so she heard Gotthard strike a match and then light a torch. He had to hunch ever so slightly, and the ceiling caught her helmet, but they made swift movement through the tunnel. 

“I hate to disappoint you, child, but this will take us a great deal past most of the roaming knights and sights. You can, of course, return with your friend, but we should pop out in the dragon barracks--”

“Dragon barracks!? Actual dragons! The monsters of old legend? That ruled the land in--”

“No no. Drakes, not true dragons. Not that you shouldn’t be impressed! You certainly should! And you should not take the drakes lightly, but they are not dragons.”

As he said this, they reached a split in the tunnel with two paths diverging to their left and their right and one ladder leading upwards into the darkness.

“Good child. Now let me lead here. I’ve the key, and you don’t.”

When he slipped past her and smothered his torch in the stone, he tested the first rung of the ladder. Seemingly satisfied, he began to climb up it. Each iron rung creaked with his weight, but he showed no sign of concern. Wren considered herself to be quite fit. She had climbed many ladders and run across great tracks of land. By the time they were at the top of the ladder, she was breathless, and from the sound of it, so was Gotthard. She hung her arms in the ladder to take the weight off of her hands as he fumbled for the key in the dark to let them escape the maddening darkness. 

When Gotthard lifted the hatch, he sprung to life. His exhaustion seemingly forgotten as he bolted out of the tunnel. Wren scrambled to catch up with him, and she stared briefly in shock as he tore through the remnants of the hollows and soldiers who rested. He made no effort to be tidy with his twin swords, as his only concern was to be quick. When Wren did crawl out, she was amazed and a little scared at how quickly Gotthard had made work of them. She looked at him, wide eyed and jaw slack. He didn’t seem to notice. 

He pulled a piece of fabric off of one of the corpses and used it to wipe clean his blade. Then he turned to her and dipped his hat. “Down that way,” he pointed out of one of the room’s two doors. “Is the hall way. And down that way,” he pointed to the other door. “Is a small armory. All quarters are like that in these barracks. There were two corrupted drakes when I left, and I suspect they are still here. Beyond that, there are various individuals that I want to take down. Before I do that, I want to show you some tricks. Come with me.”

Wren followed him again into the open armory. It seemed to double as a sitting room as it had wide glassless windows that overlooked a courtyard and portcullis. She looked out leaning so she could see the darkening sky and strange floating “butterflies” that were once pilgrims now twisted by the dark into wooden horrifying versions of themselves. She was glad that didn’t happen to Yoel. She had barely known him, but she liked him just the same.

Gotthard kicked a chest, and Wren spooked. She turned around thinking it was something following them. Instead she saw Gotthard with a white pendant on a chain dangling from his hand. One of Llyod’s Talismans. Something that temporarily clouded the connection between undead and the bonfire. “Uh… Mr. Gotthard. Why have you got that?” 

“Ah, good eye.” He stopped seemingly at random in front of one of the chests. “Do you know how to tell a simple chest apart from a vicious mimic?” The chest was breathing ever so slightly. Wren nodded. “Do you… need me to? That one’s breathing. When you kick at the chain by the hinge, it’ll feel different…” He turned his back to the mimic and smiled. “Very good. Now. The kingdom of Lothric began to employ mimics as a sort of defense many generations before even my birth. These mimics were subdued in the same way undead were, though we don’t know why.” He spun the charm about his hand. “They were then given treasures to guard. But in order to take a mimic’s treasure, you typically have to kill it, don’t you?”

She nodded, unsure of his intention. 

“There’s a sword in this one. I know you don’t need a sword, and this one, if I recall correctly, isn’t particularly special. It’s a perfectly average sword, but it’s still revered by-- was revered by our knights. They also found that by baiting the mimic with it, a thief would lift the blade, discover it’s mediocrity, and then run for their life without stopping to look at the others. But mostly because it was once revered as special. Like a lucky sock, I think.” He stepped next to her then flung the talisman at the mimic. It shattered into a pale cloud, and the mimic cracked open, extended it’s horrible tongue and arms, then… fell asleep. 

Wren watched in horror as Gotthard reached right into its mouth and pulled out the iron straight sword he’d spoken of. In its place he dropped a simple stone. He stepped away as the mimic briefly woke, yawned, and curled back into itself.

“A holy relic, no matter how mediocre, should not rot in a land tainted with Dark. Here.” He held the sword out for her to take. It was heavy in her hands. The scabbard a bland and dusty grey. The handle a dark iron somehow free of rust. There was nothing magical about the sword that she could sense, but she understood the power of a lucky sock. “Why don’t you take it? Why are you giving it to me?” She looked to him, head cocked in confusion. 

“Because I lost faith long ago. You? You’ve still got some spark to you.” 

She held the sword in front of her for a moment while she processed what he said. He wasn’t entirely right. She’d been falling out of faith since the start of her journey but… It wouldn’t do to tell him that and to deny this gift. So she smiled up at him and began to strap it to her side. 

“Ernie’s also got a long sword he keeps as a side arm but never uses. Calls it his ‘guiding sunlight’ which cracks me up, but… Thanks. I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”

Seemingly satisfied, Gotthard looked out the window then back towards where they had come from. “Want to learn a few more short cuts about? You can scout, and I can do my business, and we’ll be back in time for your wayward friend to catch up.”

“Ugh… Ernie…” She felt tired from it all. “Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks Gotthard. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t run into you.”

“Tripped. You tripped over me.”

From there Gotthard showed her how the pus of man leaked from those it contaminated. He showed her trick locks that needed no key and how to spot a servant’s hidden door from otherwise normal surfaces. Their trek in learning the shortcuts would eventually lead them to the bonfire where they’d met but not until after making Wren’s life infinitely more bearable. 

  
  



	42. Path of the Sun

Wren was a smart girl. She was capable. Ernest watched as she kicked at dust before reaching for the flame and slipping away into it. He felt sick pushing her away like he did, but it was done. He just… needed to meet the being Hawkwood had claimed to be a god. He stood listlessly staring at the flame that had consumed the girl and would soon surround him. Hawkwood placed his hand on Ernest’s shoulder as he passed him and reached for the fire.

It consumed him, swallowed him from his extended hand like an amorphous beast that only knew its own stomach. And Ernest simply watched it happen. 

_ “I know where to go. How to start our journey. Two places you can see the temple. One in Anor Londo, another in Irithyll.” “And then what?” “We pray.” _

Prayer was meaningless to Ernest. He chanted in an act of desperation, but actually trying to appeal to a god? He had no faith in them. Miracles worked because he was confident that they would and not because some deity watched over them. He closed his eyes and reached out to the flame. It licked his hand before swallowing him whole, prickling like sand in his armor and dropping him like a rough current in a stormy river. 

Irithyll. 

Hawkwood stood just beyond the flame on the great bridge to the Anor Londo cathedral overlooking the mountains to the west. Despite the bitter cold, Ernest found a comfortable warmth in seeing the man who stood so nobly overlooking the valley, one hand resting on the hilt of a knife and the other hanging freely by his side. His armor’s color appeared muted in the pale moonlight. His chainmail coif glinted like a silver veil, his breath caught in a slight fog before him, but most beautifully, Ernest thought, was his face. He’d never seen him without his armor, so he’d never seen him without the hood. From time to time, a stray lock of hair slipped past the chain and curled delicately on his forehead. 

This was one such time. A lock of dusty brown hair clung to his forehead just above his heavy brow. Frost formed on both the hair and his brows. His sandy eyes focused on something far away, but the moment he heard Ernest step out of the flame, he turned to him. Even in contemplation, he still looked as though he were nursing heartbreak. A resolute walking tragedy. 

Ernest wanted to grab a hold of him, pull him close, take away his pain and-- Hawkwood looked back to the mountain, and Ernest saw it. In the distance, on the peak of a mountain ridge, was a strange temple. He felt something tug on him from within, drawing him towards the edge of the bridge. Demanding that he leap and ascend, but he would simply die. Hawkwood sat, his legs folded and hands cupped just as Ernest had seen and done in the dream. He followed suit sitting close enough to help break up the wind but far enough to encroach on personal space. Intimacy would be counterproductive. If this worked, then they would be sharing something far more intimate than simple physical comfort.

As they sat, Ernest found himself not quite dozing but somehow losing sense of himself. His body grew stiff and hard as though a shell had grown over it or his armor had become a part of his flesh, and his eyes grew heavy. He wanted to glance at his companion, but he simply could not summon the energy to do so. 

Perhaps it was the cold that did him in. The cold always left him feeling lethargic and listless. His breath fogged in front of him obscuring his view, and eventually he gave in to the pull of rest. 

His head fell forward and before his chin could hit his chest, he jerked awake hurting his neck in the process. Where ever was not where he had been. The bridge they’d sat upon had been replaced by a dirt path winding up a crag with a sharp dropoff to his left. The path clung to the rock wall and curved to the right out of sight about thirty feet ahead of him. When he looked up, the sun briefly blinded him from a bright and pale cloudless blue sky. The crag could have been thirty feet high or fifty-- the sun’s glare made it difficult to judge. Ernest shifted, and the ground beneath him held. He rose to his feet, sword still on his back and shield lifted in his hand. 

“H--Hawkwood?” He began to step forward along the path, reaching out to feel the stone beside him and verify it was real. He peaked over the edge, hand still on the crag wall, and stumbled backwards, pressing himself to the rock and pausing to breathe. Ernest did not think himself to be afraid of heights-- he had been born in mountainous lands and had run along crags similar to this as a child and as a living man-- but the suddenness of the impossibly far drop caught him off guard. He thought back to all the times he had to lead Oscar across great gaps and thin pathways, and he found his resolve once more. 

The wind was at his back, and for a moment he felt… Something powerful. The smell of cold air, the sharpness of it, the lack of humidity, the way the dirt shifted beneath his feet… 

He was home.

Not Berenike. Well. Perhaps. He was fairly certain he was dreaming, and there was little to stop him from dreaming of the home he’d lost so long ago. But wherever he was felt so intensely familiar that it might as well have been home. He bounded, invigorated, across the path. Where there was a rock to step upon, he stepped upon it and leaped off to the nearest large stone. His childhood came back to him, and he found himself scaling the mountainside not only with ease but with joy as well. The soil of his homeland was grey, not golden, but if he closed his eyes, he couldn’t tell the difference. 

For the time being he forgot not only Wren but Hawkwood. The sun was bright and cold. The wind was brisk and biting. The ground was sharp and unforgiving, and yet for all of it, for the first time since he’d left the great mountains, he felt at home. 

Not so long ago he had told Wren he couldn’t climb. The memory briefly passed through his thoughts as he scaled a rock face with practiced ease. It felt like slipping into an old pair of shoes or into a familiar bed. Navigating this terrain was as natural to him as breathing, and for the first time since his reincarnation, he was genuinely happy. Even with Wren, with Hawkwood, with Siegward, there was a nagging melancholy. A regret for what had been done and what had been lost. But there, in this strange dream that felt so real, he could lose himself in the exertion. 

His bliss came to an end with the worn trail as it led to the ruins of an old worn fortress. He wanted to go back to the path, to leap and bound like a goat, but he had come here for a reason. The wind picked up as he reached the peak of the mountain. It chilled him through his thick armor but he knew that if need be, he could shelter between great rocks and warm himself on his way to the fortress. 

The structure was seemingly simple. Perhaps fortress was the wrong term for it, as there were no true defenses. There were towers and walls befitting a castle, but not a fortress ready for war. As he drew nearer, he remarked on how the stone walls held sturdy despite it all being abandoned. It was surreal. A great and mighty ruin. Structurally sound, but devoid of inhabitants. Ernest approached it from below. The walls he came to met with mountain and reached upwards to some higher part of the structure he couldn’t yet see. Before him the path continued to what appeared to be a portcullis. 

He wandered up the empty path, the occasional trail of blood guiding him, but whoever or whatever had left that blood was long gone, and the wind had covered their foot steps. Ernest stepped cautiously towards the portcullis, fearing for his lost companion. His worry was for naught. While Hawkwood was no where to be seen, what greeted him was the massive maw of a dead wyvern. The creature’s mouth was large enough that Ernest could have stepped inside it if he wished. He had fought a genuine everlasting dragon, but Seathe must have been some sort of runt, for this beast dwarfed even him. 

The corpse blocked his way forward, but he did not yet care. Rather he ran his hand over its stoney scales in awe. A thick trail of blood ran down from the back of its head to the rear of its jaw and puddling beneath the great beast. It was oddly viscous like syrup but smelled like tar, and like tar it was a deep dark color somewhere between red and brown. Whoever had killed it had done so recently, and somehow he had no doubt in his mind that it had been Hawkwood. A warmth filled him. The source of which was somewhere between pride and admiration. The man had come so desperately far, and Ernest could barely contain himself over it. 

But he had to find Hawkwood, and to do that he had to pass the wyvern’s corpse. The wyvern, it seemed, lay in the middle of a wide bridge lined with massive statues likely devoted to the patron lord. To one side, the south, was the bulk of the fortress in it’s soft yellow stone. To the other side, more walls and a sort of chapel looking thing. Beyond the wyvern was open sky, though Ernest could not see what sort of path lay beyond the body. 

After his quick survey of it all, his gaze settled at the feet of the nearest statue as it was eye level with Ernest. Strong calves in wrapped sandals. He froze, unable to look further upwards. He needed to-- he could feel himself slipping, but he couldn’t.

_ A strong heart. I am in awe, really. Dry grass in a small courtyard. Oscar’s hand pulled away from his. His leather gauntlet would always be softer than Ernest’s. The sun shining from behind their Sun. Red feather tattered and worn, lost in the light. Why not join me? As a warrior of the Sun? I am blessed to have found such brave companions… _

_ Sunlight in his hand, sunlight through his body.  _

Ernest stood, frozen, lost in another time. “Oh… my Sun…” He fell to his knees. 

_ Lava beneath them. A son, dead. Demons cast aside. A monstrous creature put down with their sunlight beside them. Why? After all this searching… Holding each other, breaking down in one another’s arms. Quelana’s request. One final lost Lord.  _

“I’ve found it… The sun… Don’t you see it, my love..?”

_ I’ve found it. Our very own sun. The lost sun. The Storm. _

“Ernest?” A hand on his shoulder seemed to shock him to reality, or at least to the present, and the knight began to sob. Hawkwood jumped back as if bitten, but when Ernest simply fell forward and continued to cry, he settled beside him once more. “Ernest..? What…” He’d seen men cry before. He’d seen people break under it all, but he had not known what to do then, and he did not know what to do now. Ernest leaned into him, clung to him, but his tears did not let up. 

“Oh my Sun… my dear dear Sun… We’ve found it, don’t you see? My dear Sun… My brave companion.”


	43. Path of the Mind

_ “Ernest?” A hand laid upon his shoulder, steadying him. He knew the weight of that hand. It grounded him, and whatever turmoil he had gone through steadied like the ocean after a storm. He reached across his chest to place his own heavily armored hand atop that leather gauntlet and looked up with a soft and weary smile. Oscar’s helmet shined in the bright sunlight-- the glare nearly painful in its intensity. “What’s going on?” _

_ He shifted, drifting into Oscar’s side, an act which his dearly beloved companion encouraged. He knelt down beside his weeping friend and wrapped his arms around him. “I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead… I-- I couldn’t find you. I stopped looking, but now you’re here…” Ernest felt horrible admitting it. He shook and wavered in Oscar’s arms, but it was the truth. He had stopped seeking his friend almost immediately. “I’m an idiot… There was that child…” _

_ “Child..?” Oscar tried to look him in the eye, but Ernest made a point to avoid meeting his gaze. How could he after all of this? _

_ “Never mind. I… Have you-- is Solaire--” He reached to touch Oscar’s helmet, to lift his visor and see his friend’s eyes once more, but before he could do so Oscar gently caught his hand in his own and held it though he made no move to completely stop him.  _

“Ernest?” He lifted his visor with his thumb, the rest of his hand caressing the side of Oscar’s helmet. 

Hawkwood held Ernest with grave concern. The man looked at him, met his eyes, but he did not see him. His touch was so soft, so gentle, that he found it almost difficult to believe it came from his perpetually fearful companion. Though Ernest was capable of great affection, he was either unsure or near overbearing with it. This was different. This was confident and lingering. A comfortable love. Hawkwood envied the man for whom it was truly for.

But though he was jaded and bitter, he was not a bastard. This was not his, and Ernest was in danger. “Move, Ernest. We do not want to linger here.”

The man readily wrapped his arm around Hawkwood’s shoulder and leaned on him to stand. “Hmm? What are you--” His eyes widened at the wyvern’s corpse behind Hawkwood as if seeing it for the first time. “Did… did you do this..?” His lips parted in wonder.

“I did. Come on.”

He had thought he had seen Ernest smitten before when he’d pulled him from the swamp and when he was still high from the poison. He knew now he was wrong. Ernest’s entire body shifted, his shoulders falling, his head canting to the side, his brows knitting-- his smile, his beautiful smile, was the most hopeless smile Hawkwood had ever seen. He envied Oscar.

“Have I told you that I love you?”

_ Oscar balked. Ernest knew that he had told him he loved him many times before. “Yes. We need to go.” He tugged on Ernest’s arm, and Ernest began to follow him. He wanted to grab him, to pull him close and kiss him, but Oscar was already moving. He followed him, letting Oscar drop his arm and lead, over the dead wyvern’s corpse, past a great bell, down the great stone bridge lined with the statue of the Storm, through another chapel like structure, over the wall, and then across scaffolding. Solaire must have been near. He had to be. They had found his Sun. _

Ernest was quite nimble. Far more nimble than Hawkwood remembered him being. Sure he could jump far, but he’d not seen him climb and leap with such grace and ease. On a stone wall he had to climb foot after hand, Ernest darted up it like a goat. He paused at the top looking down on Hawkwood before smiling wickedly. “C’mon, Oscar. At this rate the flame will die without our intervention! And if I find Solaire first...” Hawkwood looked up at him, frustrated and annoyed but also warmed by the genuine affection in the man’s voice and on his face. 

“You bound like a ghru, and yet.” As he reached the top, Ernest held out his arm and lifted him over. “You’re right. That wasn’t sporting at all.” Hawkwood didn’t dare break Ernest’s delusion just yet. The man was mobile, active and moving with ease and eagerness. If he broke it, Ernest might break down again, and though things had been deathly still since he put down the massive wyvern, he didn’t want to test his luck.

_ They stopped by a bonfire, one already lit. Oscar had found it in an open hall that ran alongside the wall of the fortress. The place was empty. Woefully empty. There was no soul to be found, no person to be heard, and somehow that was more frightening than hollows. Oscar gestured for Ernest to sit by the flame, so he did. Behind his friend was the glorious mountainous horizon of whatever foreign land they had come to, and seeing it struck a wave of regret. “Oscar…” He reached over the flame to take Oscar’s hand in his. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I--” _

“Stop.” Oscar squeezed his hand before letting go and leaning back. “I’m not Oscar. You know that, somewhere. I don’t know what happened to you, but I’m not Oscar. Look at me. Really look at me. Please. You poor wretched soul.” Ernest’s brows furrowed as he tried to understand that voice, those words. Things Oscar would have never said.

**“I pity you.”**

Ernest drew back dragging a hand over his face while he tried to reorient himself. Oscar-- not Oscar. Hawkwood sat across from him. Had it been him all this time? The man’s shoulders sagged with the weight of some great sorrow. This… No. He reached for his chest as if he could feel the dark sign beneath his armor for his hollowing had been laid bare before the other man. Unkindled did not grow hollow, or so he had been told, and yet… What had that been? Had he not lost his mind? Had he not been in another fictitious world-- was that how hollows saw the world?

His fingers dug into his skin, the blunt leather gauntlets preventing him from truly hurting himself. Hawkwood watched him, his expression disappearing in the shadows. He couldn’t see his face-- he wasn’t sure if he had a face. His blood rushed in his ears, his heart pounded in his head-- Too much. Too tight. Too hot. Too loud. Ernest scratched at the straps that secured his helmet, freeing it and flinging it across the hallway-- too much. Too hot. Too loud. He could hear his breaths in his chest. Hear his bones creaking. His body living. The helmet crashed into the stone wall, Hawkwood flinching as it flew by him, and started to roll towards the edge. 

“Ernest!” Hawkwood poised himself to lunge at him. “What are you--”

“No! No!” He tore the cotton cap from his head, his hair wild and sweaty beneath it, and flung it to the side. “Stop it!” His hands flew to his face as he scrambled backwards, pressing his back to the wall. “No…”

“Easy…” The man was heaving. Wide eyed and wild. “I… I’m sorry.” Hawkwood slowly stood and stepped to him, kneeling by his side.

“Leave me…” His voice barely broke into a whisper, so quiet and hoarse were his words. Hawkwood placed a hand on his shoulder and summoned the calmest voice he could. “You know I won’t do that.”

“Leave me!” Ernest tore away and pulled to the side, eyes on fire as he stared Hawkwood down. “If you have any idea what I am-- what I-- What… You will let me grieve in solitude! Please. Hawkwood. Leave me.”

“No.” He made no move to touch Ernest, but Hawkwood remained where he knelt. “I refuse to let you wallow, Ernest of Berenike. As you have torn me from the mire, I refuse to let you sink. I will not leave you here with your misery.”

Ernest slowly cooled down, the fire in his eyes replaced with soft tears. His breathing evened after his shouting, and he averted his gaze. “I didn’t…” “Yes.” Hawkwood moved forward to sit by him. “You did.” His hand rested atop Ernest’s. “You have no idea what you did for me. And I-- you are a good man. I envy this Oscar, for I have never seen anyone so in love.”

At his words, Ernest began to sob again. He was so tired of crying. So tired of the painful spasms that wracked his body. Of the head ache that started in his brows and radiated through his skull. Of the dryness of his throat and the inability to breathe through his nose. He hated how after all of this time he had failed to get it out of him. He had failed to properly express his grief.

Hawkwood was right. Grieving alone did no good. Hiding it from Wren, from Andre, from Hawkwood-- it was hurting him. Physically. Emotionally. But how could he share it? How could he put that on his companions? It wasn’t just grief. Grief was nothing. Everyone grieved. It was the guilt.

He’d killed Oscar.

He’d damned Solaire.

Laurentius, Griggs, Logan. They had died, and he did nothing. 

All he could do now was make sure no one else died. He could only make sure he did not fail again. Ernest forced himself to slow his breathing, to stem the flow of tears, and to steel himself before meeting Hawkwood’s beautiful sandy gaze. 

“You would have loved him too,” he said, voice wavering and quiet. “Oscar pulled me from the brink of hollowing. He would have done the same for you. And Solaire…” His eyes wandered past Hawkwood to the mountain range beyond them. How sharp it was. How grey. Snow peaked and jagged. Like the mountains surrounding Lothric. Like the mountains of Berenike. “Solaire was home. Where ever he was felt like home. Seeing him was like stepping through the threshold of the mother land. Like stepping into the river Balder as she wove through the Berenike mountains. Like cool rain on a hot day.” 

Ernest began to smile as he spoke, and Hawkwood said nothing for fear of interrupting him. He simply watched him, listening attentively, with a peaceful look upon his face.

“Gods… Solaire… This man was the sun. Forget the Lords, forget Gwyn, the supposed Lord of Sunlight. Where Solaire went, the warmth of the sun followed.” There was the look of gentle admiration Hawkwood so envied. “He was strong, and beautiful, and most importantly kind. He never turned down aid, and… Heh. Some days he was dumb as a sack of rocks-- not that he was stupid!” Bright eyes and a smile. “The curse affects us all differently, and he couldn’t remember things. I. I wonder if it’s done the same to me, but I don’t think I would remember. A person’s true nature comes clear when they are ill or forgetful, and there was no more compassionate a man than he.”

It wasn’t jealousy that twinged in Hawkwood’s gut. He wasn’t a jealous man. It was similar to envy, but it settled with a deep resignation rather than an indignation. Ernest had loved, and still did love, and he did not love others as he did these two. Or at least he did not love Hawkwood himself anywhere near as much as he did his old companions. It was like the light of a torch compared to the painfully brilliant light of the sun. But like the sun, he found he could bask a little in the warmth of it. 

“And Oscar?” He shifted closer curious to learn about the man Ernest had mentioned before and recently mistaken him for. The more Ernest spoke, the calmer he grew, and Hawkwood valued that peace.

“Oscar was…” He leaned backwards against the wall and stared towards the ceiling with a smile. “My dearest friend. My guiding sunlight. They were both my guiding sunlight. Oscar-- I met him at the shrine, beaten and bloody.” He turned to Hawkwood again. “I bound his wounds, and he never left me alone after that. He thought I knew what I was doing. That I was a source of invaluable experience. I had been undead for a century but I was hardly more useful for it. But the world was smaller with a friend. I would give him a leg up, and he’d offer me his hand. There was no challenge that we could not overcome together, and even as the curse wore on him, he kept going. He…”

Ernest swallowed before leaning against Hawkwood. He felt tired, so very tired… “We learned that the Flame was tied to the curse. We gave our souls to the fire, our humanity to the fire, and eventually our very selves to the fire. The dark sign bound us to the flame, and no matter what we did it ate away at us. My entire people, my homeland, fell to it. There was nothing left of any of them but dessicated hollows in Berenike and Balder armor. You’ve seen Ludleth, haven’t you? He looks just the same. The fire has been eating them… So we planned to snuff it out, but when we got to the first flame, our dear companion fell, and I refused to let him hollow, so we--” He shuddered. “I’ve told you this.”

Hawkwood leaned so that he could press his face against the side of Ernest’s head. “Yes you have.” He reached with his free hand across his chest to Ernest’s jaw and began to stroke his beard. “I know, Ernest. What it is like to bear the weight of the dead upon your shoulders. There is not a day that goes by that I do not feel them. I abandoned the Watchers, and so I am the last of them. I took part in their genocides, and when I left it was too late to wash the blood from my hands. We have to move forward.” His voice grew quiet, whispery, desperate. “We have to move forward, or the past will bury us.”

“But I killed them-- they died, and I did nothing.” He turned his head, his face mere breaths away from Hawkwood’s, his eyes pleading. “Laurentius, Griggs, Logan, Bernard-- they died, and I did nothing.”

“What could you have done?”

“I mocked Griggs-- I laughed at him, and he left without a word. I shared something dangerous with Laurentius, and he hunted for it, and it killed him. I helped Logan find the archives, and he lost himself there. I left Bernard behind, and the curse consumed them. I… I killed them. Not with my hands or my blade, but I _ killed _ them.”

“Then I killed the Watchers.” His eyes, that pale brown, flickered orange in the firelight. “I left them to their own rather than try and stop them from their murder, and they linked the flame and died for it. And all of the blood on their hands after I deserted and died is on my hands.”

“Hawkwood, no, that…” Ernest furrowed his brow in confusion. “You didn’t. You couldn’t control them. That was their decision. They were fully capable of stopping at any time. What are you..?”

“Is that not the same as what you claim? They might have died as your acquaintance or friends, but they chose their own paths. To die on our own terms is all that we can hope for. Don’t you think?”

“But my actions  _ did _ lead to their deaths. Without me…”

“Then you deny their agency as individuals. Or do you really think you are so important that life and death hinges on you and you alone?” He didn’t mean it, not genuinely. But Hawkwood did know how to be cruel and harsh, and he knew that such an appealing accusation would at the very least force Ernest to deny it, and from there… maybe he could heal. 

Ernest recoiled, wounded at the words and the way Hawkwood drawled them out. Hawkwood let him slip away, and still watching him as though betrayed, Ernest stood and collected his cap and helm. He shifted his blade and shield, turned back to his still seated companion, and said with a steady voice, “It doesn’t matter. I came here for answers. I’m going to find them. Are you still with me?” Hawkwood looked to him, mournfully, before standing and stepping towards him. 

“I am.”

  
  



	44. Path of the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have seen the cracks, but you don’t understand how deep those fissures run.

Distant thunder rolled across the mountains like marbles across hardwood. Ernest had proclaimed he would seek his answers then and there, but he balked. He was tired, the type of fatigue that came with great emotional exertion that sapped the body of its energy and left a man in a strange state between exhaustion and readiness. The wind that blew through the hallway buffeted and caressed like an old friend lost to him. He could smell the rain on it, but the clouds that carried it were out of his limited view.

Hawkwood stood beside Ernest for a moment before reaching and placing a hand on his forearm. “You don’t have to go now, Ernest.” His touch was light and likely imperceptible through the steel bracer. The knight wavered, his eyes red from tears, and dropped back against a wall. “I am so tired, Hawkwood.”

“I know.”

“But I can’t stop. Not now. Not so soon.”

“I would not suggest that.” He stepped to face Ernest and take his hands gently in his own. The wind began to grow chill and blew through the open wall. “But before you arrived, I fought a great beast. Something out there calls me. I don’t know what, but I find myself drawn.” Ernest slumped as he recognized the fire in Hawkwood’s eyes. The man had bested something greater and older than himself, and now he wanted more. A remnant of that creature now lingered within him. 

“I… Fuck, Hawkwood.” He drug a hand over his face. “You kill a drag--” His eyes widened and jaw fell slack. “You… you killed a… How did you…” He looked to his companion completely awestruck. Pride flushed through Hawkwood as Ernest tried to form his thoughts. “Yes. I did.” His smiles were typically few, thin, and half hearted, and while the smile he wore was still thin, it was genuine. 

Then Ernest began to chuckle. At first it sounded so reminiscent of the defeated laughter he’d heard among the shrine, but it grew to a more genuine disbelieving but joyous laugh. “Gods, Hawkwood--” He pulled his hands into a firm grip and held them upwards between them. “To think I ever worried about you. I…” He leaned forward and placed his head on the top of Hawkwood’s chest, bumping his chin with the crest of his helmet. Despite the discomfort and how Ernest’s gesture had knocked on his jaw and teeth painfully, Hawkwood wrapped his arms around his companion.

“Then I am in good company,” the once-watcher began. “I did not expect you to come this far when we first met. I did not expect myself to come this far.” Ernest pulled away at the comment. He wasn’t entirely sure how Hawkwood had meant it, but Hawkwood still looked pleased. He reached up to brush Ernest’s cheek, his thumb pausing on his jaw. As they spoke, a light pitter of rain began to fall, but the sky in their view was still largely sunlit. 

Ernest slid past Hawkwood to hold his hand out the open wall. He looked at wonder over the horizon and to his hand. “It’s… raining. Drizzling, but…” He looked upwards to the clear sky. Hawkwood joined him and leaned against one of the support pillars. “So it would seem to be. In the legion we called this ‘naked rain.’ But I suspect.” He held his hand out to catch the thin rain in his fingers. “It’s simply coming from behind our view. It will rain proper before you know it.” He dropped his hand by his side and wiped the rainwater on his thigh. “Shall we?” Ernest pulled his hand close to his face, sniffed it, then licked it and smiled in wonder. It was rain. The first rain he’d felt in recent memory. “I… yeah.” 

They stepped into a great room filled with sacred objects tossed about by long ago winds with four archways that led out in different directions. The room was the same pale chiseled stone as the rest of the fortress. It was hollow in the middle with a great gap in the center looking down upon a crevice in the mountain beneath them. The structure appeared to straddle two peaks in the range. Though there were large windows above them letting in the light, the room felt dark and cold. With the approaching rain, the breeze was more chill than it was brisk. 

What struck Ernest the most was not the bleakness of the room nor the obvious abandonment but a great red and faded banner that hung weatherworn from the ceiling above the arch way before them. Hawkwood glanced at him when he first stopped, then turned to see what had Ernest so enraptured. An eight pointed sun. He recognized it for the golden medallion Ernest had once handed him, but he knew he’d seen it somewhere else before even that-- perhaps in Lothric back when he was still a proper Undead and not Unkindled. Whatever it’s significance, it had turned his companion pale as death. 

“Ernest…” His voice was deep. Almost chastising as he tried to keep his companion in the present. He shifted, ready to snap in front of his eyes, but the knight shook his head. “I’m still here, Hawkwood. That’s just…” He fumbled for his ‘token’ and pulled it out from beneath his armor. Hawkwood quickly put his hand over the pendant and stared long and hard into his companion’s eyes. “Don’t lose yourself, Ernest.” The rain began to patter more insistently, and Ernest felt a determination wash over him. He would find answers here. Maybe not the answers he sought for, but he would at least find something. As he lurched forward, a bright light surrounded him.

Hawkwood lunged after Ernest when he saw the holy circle appear beneath him. A bright light flashed as he felt himself summoned away to a shear mountain path made all the more dangerous in the growing rain. He looked around him and called out, but no one answered. Wherever he had been taken, it was away from his companion. It had been countless years since he felt responsible for another man’s well being, and while his companion would likely remain physically unharmed, he’d seen him crack and crumble once already. He struck a loose stone with his boot and cursed. Ernest was as much a friend as he was a liability, and if anything happened to him--

A plaque carved in stone along the rock wall caught his eye.  _ Only one can walk the Path of the Dragon…  _ So that’s how it was.

Ernest stood alone in a courtyard with the rain and the wind. He scowled as he surveyed his new location. About him were more of the same buildings, abandoned, weather worn, and largely untouched. The fortress was empty, but there was no sign of a battle. There were no corpses, no stains, no gouges from blades or breaks from a siege. It was as if whatever people lived here had simply absconded. 

But some power had spirited him away from his companion. As he cursed that power and searched for it among the empty walls, a great wyvern flew overhead-- not as large as the one Hawkwood had put down. It screamed and roared before dipping down to pour fire into the courtyard. Angered but not stupid, Ernest bolted for the surrounding ruins and jumped through an open window. It circled above the ruins, screaming and bellowing. It seemed to him that someone was playing games with him. Perhaps he’d lost it again. He glared at the beast over head and found himself growing more and more infuriated. He reached for his talisman-- if he and Oscar could take down Seathe, if Hawkwood could take down a greater Wyvern, than this would be nothing.

But a soft weight on his shoulder stopped him. He turned from the window to see the scaled hand of a serpent-man. She wore ragged clothing, scarves mostly, about her body and head like bandages. He could not see her eyes. “The wyvern is young and stupid. Powerful and stupid and prideful.” She slipped back, dust falling from her scarves. “The eldest of them died today.”

“The… the big one..?” He had not met a man-serpent who spoke much less who did not try to murder or imprison him, but the only ones he had met before were Seathe’s creations. “Yes,” she chuckled though it sounded like laughing through teeth. “The big one.” After a moment she extended her hand. “I am Nadia. A descendent of the dragons. And in my youth I was a warrior of our lord. A piercing ray of his light.” She poked Ernest’s chest with a long thin finger. “We share a covenant. Are you, too, old and long forgotten?”

He didn’t swat her away, but he did puff in offense. “I am not old and-- oh my gods… I am old and long forgotten…” He deflated, sighed, then shrugged. “I’m Ernest, the Devoted of Berenike. A warrior of sunlight and a blade of the darkmoon.” He looked back out to the circling wyvern who seemed to have screamed itself out. “Where am I?”

“You’re home. Or it would have been if not for…” She sidled up to the window next to him and looked out. “If Lothric had not betrayed the covenant. For generations it was a holy city who walked in the sunlight. Brave knights followed both paths to bond with the true remnants of the dragons-- the wyverns and drakes. This was, and is still, the holiest place for those who walk the paths. But then.” Her hand gripped the stone window ledge, claws digging rivulets into it. “The human king betrayed the covenants.  _ He  _ could not achieve ascension, so he sought ancient texts and ancient lies from the Traitor’s hand. In doing so he--”

“Seathe wrote things down?” Ernest cut her off amazed that the pale drake had done anything of value, if this was of value. “I’ll be damned.” “How do you know that name? Do you follow in the mad king’s footsteps?” She whipped around, her maw mere inches from Ernest’s face. Breath hot and rancid. “No. No! Gods no. I uh. I’m really old. I was around back then, and I was around when Seathe started kidnapping people and losing his mind. And for when he was eventually put into the ground, or the fire. I uh.” He leaned away from her. “I killed Oceiros. With my friend. We put him to the grave together. But what happened here? Don’t stop that story.”

She hovered in front of him contemplating. Eventually she moved a respectable distance away, sat by the window, and continued. “Well he decided that the Crystal Dragon’s methods had something to them beyond preventing death, but he invited the Abyss into his kingdom. Maddened, he still held sway, and his kingdom began to harbor that darkness. They defaced the image of our Lord who was already Nameless, but far more damning than that… They… They…” She slipped further to the ground, quivering with rage. “They infected our own with their  _ humanity.  _ Their pus. Brothers and sisters of the dragon became hollow shells filled with the writhing vile abyss of man. Wait…” Ernest stood nervously as she looked him over. “Why are  _ you  _ here? How do you even know to get here?”

“Uh… I followed my friend. The one I was pulled away from.”

She dropped her head like a guilty child. “Then you have no interest in being here? Your friend has been taken to the Path of the Dragon which must be walked alone, but that does not interest you. I don’t know what to do with you…” Ernest reached out and plopped a hand on her shoulder, or where he figured her shoulder was. “Hey there…” A sad winning smile. “You could take me to this Lord of yours.” “What?!” She recoiled, scarves briefly flying about her in a way reminiscent of a ghost. “No no no! He is not to be disturbed! Our Lord is only summoned in great events or for going to war-- not on a whim of some stranger!”

“Some stranger? My people worshipped the Storm before your grandparents were even a thought in their grandparents’ minds! I-- no. Sorry.” He slumped back down. “I’m so tired of dealing with Lords and Gods. This Nameless Lord-- Gwyn’s kid?” He waved tiredly at one of the banners. “Gwyn was the self-proclaimed Lord of Sunlight--” A hiss. “Ok he  _ was  _ the Lord of Sunlight. Killed my best friend just the same. Gwynevere fucked off, and Gwyndolin had to run the show by herself.”

“How do you know those names?” Nadia had taken a seat next to him once more. “Gwyndolin was known, yes. One of the last of the Sun’s children to take breath. But even here those names are not spoken. Who else's names do you know?” “I uh…” He stopped and thought about how frequently he’d been mocked for claiming to have walked with the first of the undead. “I was undead in the first cycle. We all knew the names of the first Lords. Gwyn, Izalith, Nito… But out of curiosity… How do you summon your Nameless Lord, and uh…” He looked out the window trying to be nonchalant and failing. “What do you consider a great event?”

“When we go to war, a soldier sacrifices himself. He pulls the Bell and duels the king. If the Nameless Lord is satisfied, he leads us to battle. If he is not, then the soldier is slain, and he leads us to war just the same.” She moved her head so that she would block his view of the outside. “Don’t. Don’t do it, Ernest of Berenike. You throw your life away. And for what? For what reason do you insist on calling him?”

The light patter of rain bounced on the ground into small puddles. It broke where the drake soared above them then continued in little more than a mist. He held his hand out to catch it once again. “I killed his father. I need to know if Gwyn took my friend down with him.”

“Then if you summon him, you do so against my warnings. You bear his wrath alone.”

\---

Half an hour. Half a year.

\---

He had found himself. He didn’t know how long he had been alone or how far he was on the mountain path, but the fortress at which he had arrived was long lost to the mist and the mountains. There was little in the way of foliage, and there was no real life about him. The mountain range was stark, but in its desolation it was beautiful. So high up was he that the snow was merely powder. Far beyond in the distant horizon he could see the peaks of Lothric castle and the very top of the Anor Londo Cathedral. He was so far away, and for the first time he was truly alone with himself-- not in some dark damp shrine or on the path filled with hollows, but alone. On a mountain. Simply existing. Thinking. Breathing. Being. 

The Watcher. The Deserter. The Unkindled. These titles held no weight to him any more, and he felt free. Gods damn that duty-- it was a foolish duty placed upon the shoulders of the unwilling who had no obligation to serve it. He didn’t need to collect the Lords and drag them to the flame-- no one did. Let the world turn to shadow! Life would persevere. Maybe not  _ his  _ life, but life would. And… He could die. Finally at peace with himself.

For his acts as a Watcher and as a Traitor seemed insignificant in the face of the wide open sky. He smiled, and for a moment he thought he might sprout wings and fly. When he dreamed, oh how he dreamed, it was no longer nightmares of dead men’s faces. It was not of relived horrors. It was of flight, and power, and freedom. He found the pose the Lord of the Storm had shown him helped to clear his mind. It was almost addictive in how quickly it brought him peace.

But one midmorning, his peace cracked like cold glass thrown into hot water. A storm blew up beyond his little mountain range, and it surged with a fury towards him and towards where he had come from. A great fear sunk into his gut as he recognized dark wings beating among the clouds. Resigned, he simply watched as the blanket of rain and hail covered the distant fortress. Ernest was the master of his own fate, and Hawkwood found it easy to let him go.

\---

Berenike had never experienced a hurricane. They had weathered great storms and powerful blizzards, but never a hurricane. So it was that Ernest had no concept of an eye in a storm. It blew up the moment the bell first rang. He found himself shielding his face from the worst of it, and when it let up just enough for him to look out, it was not a Lord he stood before but a strange four winged bird-dragon. The creature made a sound more like a cry than a roar before leaping over Ernest. As it did so, Ernest made out the figure of a man on its neck. 

He turned to ready his guard against the bird-dragon should it choose to strike, but no blow yet came. The Lord watched the man waiting for his first strike, but none came. So long had his home been empty, and even then he could only feel the souls of three undead-- one who had been trapped for ages and two new ones. When he slipped down from his friend’s neck, Ernest saw him clearly.

He didn’t need to say it, for the lord of the storm could already see it-- Ernest would not draw his sword against him. He was hollow-- something a lord should not be. He carried a massive spear much like how Gwyn had held his greatsword, and his crown was adorned with pale feathers reminiscent of Gwyn’s rotting hair. Ernest walked towards him and paused when the dragon pointedly turned its head to watch him. “You burned.” His mouth moved as he tried to find the words he wanted. This lord, hollow and silent, had burned. “Why..? Why would you do that? Couldn’t you see what we saw?” Still nothing. “I… Does it hurt?” Nothing. “Did… Solaire loved you-- did you see him in it?” Nothing. Ernest’s fists balled in frustration. “Are you even a person anymore? Or just a shell like Gwyn?”

The Nameless Lord turned to the bird-dragon then again to Ernest. He reached out, placed his left hand on Ernest’s shoulder, then ran him through with his greatblade. It burned.  _ It burned.  _ Blood bubbled out of his mouth as it leaked into his lungs and between his ribs. He grabbed uselessly at the lord’s arms-- chest-- hands, but he couldn’t breathe. He stood dying, held up by the grace of the blade that all but severed him, but all he could really feel was disappointment. 

What a terrible waste.

He fell into death.

The Nameless lord looked alive above him. Young and kind and worried. His hair was white like his youngest sister’s.  _ There is only one way to leave this place.  _ His large hand caressed Ernest’s face. Though thoughts and realizations came to him, they came in the way that knowledge came through a dream. He simply knew these things now. No one spoke them into being.  __ The Nameless Lord leaned down to press a soft kiss to Ernest’s forehead, and as he did so he laid Ernest upon the ground. There was nothing for him in this dream.

Death was a deep sleep. He continued to dream of the Nameless Lord’s soft expression and dragon friend. He dreamt that once more he was in that lord’s arms returning his smile and holding him close in return, but none of these dreams were significant. Nor were any of those dreams connected to anyone or anything beyond the simple subconscious desire to dream of strong men and soft embraces. When he woke, he was on the ground of the Anor Londo bridge as if he’d simply slumped over. He would have panicked at the wound he dreamt of, but so much filled his mind between then and now that it felt like a distant non-event. More pressing on his mind were the soft dreams that had followed.

A light snow fell and an even lighter layer of snow dusted his armor and his companion. Hawkwood sat in the same position they’d started in but breathed as if sleeping. Ernest fretted over waking him, but he did not need worry as Hawkwood’s lips slowly turned into a gentle and contented smile. He awoke slowly and peacefully with a new gleam in his eye. He let out a breath when his eyes met Ernest’s.

“I watched the Storm take you-- Did you… find what you were looking for?”

“No. But… I still needed to do it.” Ernest felt an intense bout of humiliation rise in him like heartburn as he realized that though he may not have been physically present, it had all been real. He pressed his hand to his chest where he’d been stabbed, but he felt no pain. “What. What did you find? What made you smile so?” Hawkwood let out a thoughtful sigh as he watched Ernest then reached to take his hand away from his chest and hold it in his own. “A new direction. A path of perseverance. A path one must take alone. The path of the dragon.”

The rising illness in his gut churned with the cold and sinking disappointment. “Then… you won’t be joining Wren and me?” He hadn’t asked him to before, and he began to regret it. “This lonely path you choose.” Hawkwood let out a sharp but good humoured laugh. “Do you  _ really  _ think that your companion could tolerate my presence for more than a moment? She despises me, and for good reason.” He squeezed Ernest’s hand. “Who would want to travel with such a bitter man? No no.” He raised a finger to stop Ernest before he could start. “I do not know why you are so insistent, or if I do then I am sorry for it. You have done me a kindness, Ernest. One I shall not forget, but you need to walk in your sunlight. You have given me a leg up, but you must help yourself just as much. You must take care of yourself or you will give and give until there is nothing left of you to give, and then what?” He didn’t let go of the knight’s hand. He held it firmly, and when Ernest turned his head down, Hawkwood lifted his chin to look him in the eye. 

“Ernest of Berenike, I owe you more than you can possibly realize, and I cannot help you the way that you have helped me. But you chose your companion well, so stick to her. Our paths will cross. I know that to be true, for though we might walk different paths, they run side-by-side.”

“Hawkwood…” He wasn’t afraid of losing his friend. Not this time. He had full confidence in the man, but he still wanted him there. He was strong, he was beautiful, he was his friend and his equal. Sandy eyes on pale skin framed in chain. Snow muting the world, the colors, the sounds. He would commit this to memory the best he could. “Don’t you dare go hollow. Don’t you ever give up. I want to see you at the end of it all. I want you to be there.”

“I will be there. I may not be a Warrior of Sunlight like yourself, but call upon me should you ever need me. For more binding than any covenant, you are my friend.” He stood, helping Ernest up as he did so. The knight didn’t miss a beat. He lunged into Hawkwood, embracing him and holding him so tightly he could feel the man struggle to breathe. He buried his face into the man’s shoulder, and for a long while he simply held him like that. Hawkwood found himself returning the embrace with a reasonable amount of passion-- his arms still firmly around the knight but not constricting. His face pressed into the side of the man’s helmet. 

“I love you.” As Ernest murmured the words he realized he had not yet voiced them before. He suddenly felt as if he’d done a great injustice. He relaxed his embrace, and he spoke again. “I love you, Hawkwood. My beautiful  _ capable  _ friend.” His words were louder, more intentional, but still muffled in the man’s shoulder. When he responded, his voice quivered as if in disbelief. “Of course you do.” A soft forced chuckle. “I have never had any reason to think otherwise.” 

Though Ernest could not see it, Hawkwood felt the sting of tears and their weight in his brow. He knew it was not just himself who was starved for the words, but he felt… he couldn’t quite place it. Yet he could not bring himself to return the phrase. He wanted to, but it wouldn’t come. Ernest continued to mumble sweet words of friendship and love. Camaraderie and compassion, and while they all very much fit Hawkwood, they felt like they belonged to someone else. Too much praise for someone like him.

He pulled away from the embrace and held his companion at arm’s length. “There is a young woman. She is likely very upset and undoubtedly feels betrayed. We--” Ernest looked up at him with glassy doe-eyes. “We did what we came here to do. You need to finish what you started.” When he dropped his hands and waited for Ernest to leave, Ernest took his right hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Good-bye, Hawkwood.” He stepped backwards towards the flame. “I trust you to stay safe.”

“Good-bye, Ernest. Don’t you dare go hollow…”

The flames took him, and Hawkwood was alone once more. He dropped to the ground and sat overlooking the cold world beyond. For the first time in a long time, he was his own man once again. 

  
  
  



	45. Affection

Wren would be at the castle. She would be angry with him and moving on with their quest, but he could find her with ease. She was a smart girl and a capable girl. A thirty minute pause wouldn’t do her in, and if it did… well she had already gotten far enough in over her head that he couldn’t save her. But she wouldn’t. He’d seen her become so strong over their time together. It would take a hell of a beast to stop her.

And he had something very very important to do. Something he should have been doing from the start but had neglected. 

When he arrived at the shrine, he didn’t simply step out of the flame-- he burst from it. He skidded to a halt before grabbing the poor firekeeper and wrapping her in a hug. “Child!” She squeaked at his strange and sudden affection. “Child, I swear to you this will end. You will be able to live your life! I am sorry that I avoid you!” “Unkindled one--” “What is your name?!” “I… I don’t… have… one...” “That’s a tragedy! Then I will give you a name-- you can take it or leave it, but if you should like it,” he pulled away enough to see her startled face and covered eyes. “How do you like the name Anabelle?” Her jaw hung open in confusion. “I read it in a book once. I thought it was pretty. If I were a lady-- well I mean… I was, but-- no this is about you!” “If it would please you, Unkindled--” “Ernest. My name is Ernest, and it matters not what pleases me! This is yours.” She held still, his hands still over her shoulders. “You may call me Anabelle…”

Ludleth watched from above as he squeezed her once more before charging off to Irina on the stairs so near by. He chuckled as Ernest lifted her hands in his and began on another equally excited rant. “Irina! Darling child! I love you as though you were my own!” “E-ernest!” She laughed, her voice like a holy chime. “You are in a good mood, dear champion!” He bent down to kiss her cheek, his whiskers scratching and tickling her face at which she pulled away and giggled. “Yes, my child. I am in a mood, for I have recognized that I have not been myself. This sulking, gloomy man who keeps his love bottled is not who I was and not who I wish to be. So let me start it now. Dear child, I love you. And when this is all over and you and Wren can live peacefully together--” “Champion!” “Oh hush child! Never be ashamed of your love! You may not commit, but love is love, even the temporary sort!”

When Ernest pressed another kiss to Irina’s cheeks and bolted down the hallway, Ludleth felt a little disappointed. Such wild energy. He wished some of it could have been for him. Still, it was a brighter light in the shrine than the meager fire in the center, and he felt a bit warmer for it. Whatever he said to the handmaiden was lost to Ludleth as he drifted off into a mild jealous reverie. But Ernest’s cry to Andre could have shaken the stone itself. 

**“ANDRE OF ASTORA!** You big beefy blacksmith!” He charged the smith much as he had the first day. “I’m holding hot iron!” It did not deter Ernest and his wild affection as he plowed into the man, grabbing him and lifting him ever so slightly from his place by the furnace. The sword, or what was meant to be a sword, flew from Andre’s grip and smacked into the wall, bending out of shape. “Andre, I love you. I love you so much it burns like the bonfire.” 

“Ha! Easy there, Ernest. You say that to all yer friends or just the ones ye like?”

“I say it to you.” He looked up to the black smith before squeezing him once more and pulling his head down so he could plant a hearty kiss on his cheek. “And I mean it-- I love you.”

“Aye, I know. I was wonderin’ where all your affection was goin’. Guessin’ that arse finally broke the dam? How’s it feel te be yerself again?”

“It’s a wonder the dam was ever there…” He swore Andre’s eyes sparkled. “It feels like I’ve been wearing ill fitting shoes for weeks and for the first time I’ve taken them off and dipped my aching toes in cold water.”

He turned, eyes like a falcon, to Orbeck who quickly started to gather his work and make a retreat. Ernest chuckled and sighed before slipping away from Andre and moving to confront the sorcerer. He hopped down the steps rather loudly in his bouncy mania and quickly closed the distance between him and Orbeck’s workspace.

“Hey, Orbeck?” His voice was calmer, but the sorcerer still let out a heavy sigh and dropped his work. “I uh. I wanted to thank you. I’m not gonna fawn over you-- though I could if you want but I don’t think you do. But uh. I think you pushed me on the first step of letting go-- and I’m still working on it but.” He looked down at the man’s work. “If you ever need anything. As a friend, not just as a patron, let me know.” The sorcerer’s smile was thin and terse. “You are welcome.”

Before he could make Orbeck any more uncomfortable, Cornyx spoke up. “Ah! Ernest!” He didn’t really have anything to say, so he floundered as he tried to come up with a reason to draw him away. “How’s Hawkwood? You did run off with him, didn’t you? Had a good time, I take it?” He bristled instinctively for a moment before relaxing and laughing. “Aw Cornyx, first you want to see my flame, and now you’re asking about my love life? You old cougar you.”

“If I were a cougar, then I could read Quelana’s tome. I’m a fox, you know.”

“An old blind fox. But hey… I love you.”

“I know you do. You wear it on your sleeve. I might be blind, but there’s more than one way to say it. Every time I harass you to sit with me and practice your pyromancy, every time I invite Wren by my side to learn her way around the flame, I am telling you that I love you. Every time you bring a book to Irina or a scroll to Orbeck or a coal to Andre, you are saying that you love them. Every time Orbeck shares his scrolls with Melody and Karla, he expresses affection. He’s blushing now, isn’t he? No one likes to be called out on it. Not when they’re courting, hee hee!”

“Next time I see you, Cornyx… I’ll let you see my flame--” “Oh ho!? You would!?” “Yeah, sure. But first there’s a young lady who wants to stop being a bastard and back her up. So I’ve got to catch up with my kiddo. I’ve got to go find Wren. Stop being her shitty uncle and go back to being a mediocre one.” Ernest turned, and sure enough Orbeck was bright pink. He had buried his head as deeply as he could into some stack of books, but so thorough was his blush that his ears and neck had grown pink. He smiled, but there were two other people he needed to pester before he left for Wren.

Karla was waiting for him. She smiled from her nook in the wall, her hand on some tome Orbeck had lent her. “I’d thought you’d forgotten about me. Good to know--” Before she could finish, Ernest wrapped her in an oppressive hug. “Oh Karla please.” She squeaked in his embrace. “How could anyone forget about you? What with that hat?” He let her go, and she slumped back to the ground, chuckling. “You are a strange little man. You’ve invited the Dark in, but now you ignore it. I often wonder why you invited me here if you had no use for me…”

“I ignore you like I ignore a spider-- some housemates you share a couch with, and some you let do their own thing. And that sounded bad. I like spiders. Or I did. When they were small and ate the flies in the window…” He smiled awkwardly as he looked around for the other sorcerer, Melody, the little spook. He pursed his lips in a pout when the man was nowhere to be found, but he wouldn’t press it. “You’re a good kid, Karla. Dark or fire or whatever, you’re a good kid.” Another awkward nod, and he headed for the bonfire once more. This time, however, around the back. 

By now Ludleth had assumed he would be passed over. He didn’t like the way Ernest looked at him. There was a mix of knowing pity and guilt. The man had claimed to have been there for the linking of the flame, but he was no lord of cinder like Ludleth himself was. His skin was made of ash. Soft and human in form. But the Fire was eating Ludleth alive still. His body was corpse like. Smoldering. 

But the loud footsteps of steel sabatons gave Ernest away as he approached Ludleth from behind his throne. The knight peeked around, hanging on the stone back, and smiled. “Hey, Ludleth.” He fumbled as he tried to think of something worth saying. “Ah, Lord-Slayer. There is but one lord left.” “No. No I mean. Yeah there is. A kid but…” Ernest frowned, lips drawn into a thin line hidden beneath his beard. “I wanted to thank you. For being open about being a Lord and what it means. It’s easier to be compassionate when there’s a fellow like you around.” So he was to be a part of this manic ride of affection. Ludleth kept his regal composure and smiled gently at the knight. Perhaps, if he’d had his legs still, they would have been the same height once.

Ernest stepped around the throne so that they were as near eye-level as they could be. “You don’t need me praising you. We both know what kind of strength it takes to will oneself a lord-- to link the flame. You did it, and I was there for someone else. You know what you are, and… It scares me how much the flame’s eaten you but.” He paused having derailed himself. “But you have a damn good heart. Wren calls you Luddy. She only gives nicknames to good people.” He trailed off. Ludleth was a fine fellow, but Ernest couldn’t fake affection. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t fond of the little lord. Ludleth reached out to pat his hand. “That young lady stormed off in quite a fury, Lord-seeker. I will not be wounded if you leave me now to go back to her. I am old, not stupid.”

It was a sheepish smile Ernest gave as he slowly backed away and trotted for the fire. Ludleth watched him go from his high perch. He was pleased. He had only really wanted to be included and remembered, and he had been so.


	46. Reuniting

As Ernest stepped into the flame to be carried away, he realized he hadn’t seen Greirat. He turned as if to go back the way he came, but once the fires took him the only way out was through. He sighed as he stepped out onto the stone of the castle floor and tried to remember if he had seen Greirat or if the man simply hadn’t been there. Surely he wouldn’t have neglected him if he were there… And typically he set up shop by Karla… It wouldn’t do to fret. He’d just have to assume that the man was out and about doing his thing-- after the last time he sought permission to ransack, Greirat had never asked again.

With a deeper frown, Ernest looked about the room. There was no marking indicating where Wren had gone, but she had to have come this way. If not Wren, then he’d likely encounter Eygon or, if he were fortunate, Gotthard or Anri. Oh Anri… They had not seen the child since the battle with the Pontiff. So dejected were they that he did not have much confidence they’d continue forward. He expected the worst but hoped for the best. 

The path leading away from the bonfire to the wall about the castle was suspiciously empty. What hollowed cadavers he did encountered were crushed and splattered in a way that indicated not only blunt force but great force. He sighed with disappointment as he knew only one person who carried a weapon that could do this. Somewhere down the road he would find Eygon again. 

The sky seemed to burn with the fading flame, and it dawned on him that the sun had only turned to shadow after they killed Yhorm. Four lords had flames burning within them, but they had snuffed out the flames of three. The fires that raged about the Watchers, Yhorm, and Aldrich were now meager embers. He didn’t know if the sinking cold in his gut was from guilt or apprehension. As he stood there contemplating the fate of the flame, a great shadow passed over him. He turned upwards to see the drake with a strange black snake trailing from its feet fly over him. It landed out of view with a crash and a roar.

So it was true. The humans of Lothric had brought the Abyss even to the dragons themselves. A momentary connection coalesced in his mind-- the crystal constructs in Dark Root Garden, the girl encapsulated in the gold body of such a creature, her homeland and the source of the Abyss, Seathe’s magic, and Oceiros. And now the Abyss tainted drakes. The pieces were there, but he couldn’t make anything of them, not now. Not with so much pressing on him. 

He pressed forward following the small trail of destruction. The sun, or the dark sign, was beautiful in its own haunting way. The sky was ablaze as if it truly were on fire. It was unlike dusk or red dawn where there were darker portions of the sky or where the light was only to one side of the horizon. It looked like he was in the middle of a forest fire with the sun eclipsed-- gleaming corona and all. 

Ernest followed the wall. He stepped over corpses and broken down barriers. He idly wondered if there had been some sort of siege on the castle that the soldiers had prepared for, but there simply weren’t that many barriers. As he pondered and wandered mostly without worry of assault, the bellow of a drake reached him. There was the screech that came with the blasting fire, and he picked up his calm walk to a steady jog. It wouldn’t be Wren. He’d seen no signs of her fire or spear or sword-- he wasn’t sure which she was currently favoring. Eygon’s black iron armor would act like a pot in an oven. He’d be cooked quite thoroughly if a bit burned.

“Eygon?” He called as he trotted up steps closer to the drake bellowing their stomachs’ flames. “Eygon are you-- Oh.” The knight had not yet reached the drake and its flame. There was still a thin bridge between him and it, and it sat atop a building seeming to have lost interest in its display. No. The knight was smashing one of the abyssal knights beneath his massive hammer. Armor crumpled beneath the weight of his blows. Abyss and blood splattered and coated the ground and near by wall. 

Eygon turned, his gargoyle helmet fixing its unseeing gaze on Ernest. It was frightening but alluring at the same time. He looked like some sort of holy avenger made of black stone. If Ernest didn’t know the man beneath the armor, he might have been quite taken with the aesthetic of it all, but he knew Eygon. While the appearance was still powerful-- seeing this gargoyle of a man so thoroughly pushing back the Dark one being at a time-- it didn’t last. “It’s not like you to appear without your lackey. Where’s the girl to back you up?”

“Lackey? Ha. Oh no. She’s not a lackey… Lackeys actually listen to you. I think. I was… actually hoping you’d have seen her… But if you hadn’t… Ah gods.” He slapped a hand to his forehead in frustration. “I didn’t drop by Irina. She’s probably back with her. Shit. Well. Thanks--”

Eygon had turned without a word, disinterested in what Ernest had to say or whatever nonsense he’d gotten into. He hefted his great hammer and looked past to the drake that had bellowed fire before. It lowered its head from either fatigue or boredom, and he was fairly certain that he could dart to its blind spot with relative safety. Ernest trotted after him, still trying to catch his attention. “Wait. Hey. Eygon wait!” But he didn’t wait. He stepped upon the bridge, watching the drake for signs of recognition. Once it reared its ugly head, he would charge.

But the moment he reached the halfway point of the bridge, a second drake crashed into the ground before them. He balked, frozen wide-eyed as he knew he would likely meet his death in such a sudden and gruesome way. The drake screeched, opened its mouth, and began to let loose flame. As the heat hit him from the front, another force, a great weight, hit him from behind. He hit the ground then continued to fall as he rolled off of the bridge. Ernest crashed partially on top of him mostly on his legs. His hammer hit the ground an arm’s length away, crumpling stone beneath it. 

The fire blazed above him, but it did not reach him. Eygon groaned and shifted. Ernest rolled off of him and sheepishly smiled. “If I liked you at all, I’d make a joke about how often we end up rolling around but…” His smile grew wide. “I think you’re terrible.” 

“Then why did you tackle me?” Egyon reached a hand to his helmet though he knew he wouldn’t feel it. It would take him a moment to stand after falling… He looked upwards. Ernest had tackled him from a bridge to fall a good thirty feet. He should have broken something with the way they landed. He should have been seriously injured. Perhaps he was and simply wasn’t yet aware of it. Ernest seemed to be as he shot back estus and looked up the wall across from their fall.

“Because I’m not a bastard. I think you would have done similar even though you are a bastard.” Eygon tried to stand, but ah. There it was. A deep pain in his ribs. A moment, a shot of estus, and he was standing again and reaching for his hammer. “But hey, Eygon. I’m going to do something reckless. Watch my back?”

Before the knight could respond, Ernest had holstered his sword and shield to his back and began testing the stone wall closer to the dragons. He could scale it. Probably. Yes. Yes he could, he found out as he began to climb it with remembered ease. It’s age helped. The deep grooves in the stone from worn masonry. The scars from old battles and wars. Some places he could properly stick his foot in, not just his toes. It was slow going, but that gave him time to think. The drakes were infected with the pus of man. He’d seen the black shimmer from the toes of the one that flew above. If he could reach that, he could kill the drake. Or whatever was left of it. 

Though his climb was not entirely quiet, the drake ignored him. It could not see him, so he must have parsed as another lothric hollow. For that he was grateful. But when he reached the peak of the stone wall, he was tired and out of breath. The dragon sat upon it with no room for Ernest to stand, but he saw what he was looking for. Thick, shining, black snakes wriggled about the drake’s toes. Vile shadowy things with red eyes like glass stones. Like the cracked red eye orbs he’d seen on the darkwraiths years ago. They briefly locked their gaze with him, and the drake screamed. It did not stand-- it did not seem to be able to use its foot, but it twisted to reach Ernest, and as it did so, it exposed just enough room for him to climb up and stand.

It did not occur to him that he didn’t have his talisman in his hand, but it did not matter. He thought of Solaire. Of Ornstein. Of Oscar and Hawkwood and the Storm. With the sun in his hand, he drove it deep into the abyssal pus. The drake screamed with pain but fell as Ernest stabbed it again. The darkness sizzled and fried like fat in a pan before turning into dust. The body of the drake was a hollow shell of skin and scale and bone, and when Ernest touched it, it crumpled like old paper. 

He pushed through the wings, shredding them like tissue, to a wall that had been behind the drake. To his relief, there was a door, and perhaps he wouldn’t have to climb down the way he came, but as he stepped through it, he was met with a familiar if bewildered face. “Gotthard?” 

The older gentleman stared at Ernest with shock and appreciation. “My. You killed that drake rather swiftly. How did you know?”

“Know what?” It had been long enough for Ernest to forget the man’s association with the kingdom. But he didn’t need to be associated with the kingdom to pose his question. It was a fair question for anyone. “Oh! I uh. I saw it flying overhead. And I’d seen uh. That blackness in hollows, so… Seemed like a good place to start-- have you seen Wren?”

“I. Ah. Yes. She’s back at the bonfire--”

“What?! I was just there.”

“We just returned to the bonfire. I just came back here.”

Ernest squinted, baffled at how Gotthard could have moved so quickly, but it began to come back to him. He relaxed and nodded in understanding then peaked back out over to Eygon. “Say uh, Gotthard? I got a guy here who… Won’t stab you in the back probably. You two have fun. I’m gonna. Book it back to Wren.”

He ignored Eygon as he charged back the way he came. He could have simply snapped a homeward bone or whispered a prayer, but he wanted some time to prep and prepare. He ended up doing none of those things, and when he returned to the bonfire, Wren was sitting there with her feet on the wall. When she heard him clomp in, she scrambled to her feet. Much of her ire had died with time, but she was not yet ready to let go of it.

“Ernie you! You left me a second time! It better have been worth it!” She jabbed a finger at him, though her anger was mostly for show. “It better have been fun! Hawkwood had better be the best--”

“Woah! Wren!” He threw up his hands and turned a deep shade of red. “No. It was uh. Horrible. Actually. I had hallucinations and flash backs about my dead friends. There was a snake lady, and I got stabbed by my old god, and…” The red ran from his face. He turned pale when he saw the scabbard at her side. The hilt of the sword. “I uh. I’m… I’m still… not… ok.”

Wren dropped her hand then followed his gaze to the sword then looked back to his haunted face. “Uh… Ernie…?” She placed a hand over it as if to hide it from him. “What’s wrong?”

He was quiet, unanswering for a long moment. His voice grew hoarse as he simply stared at it. In a whisper he said, “So he is dead. I knew it all this time.” He shook his head slowly. “I know that blade, Wren. May I… May I see it?” Concerned with her mentor’s recent activity, she slowly drew the blade and held it out to him. Ernest took it gingerly from her hands as he lovingly looked it over for damage and memories. 

“Are you sure, Ernie? That you know this blade?” He’d cracked once with her. Called her Oscar. Seemed to lose himself and then never spoke of it. Then he’d run off with Hawkwood for what she had hoped had just been a lovers’ fling but what was becoming apparent to her as something far more dangerous. “It’s been a long time Ernie--”

“It’s his.” His voice had returned to its normal strength. The steady monotone. The gravel. The warmth. “I know it’s his because, uh. I know. You can’t uh. Replicate certain things, and I can uh. I can feel those things. The uh.” He held the sword and swung it about in his wrist. “The feel.” His was a smile filled with longing and regret. 

“You handle each other’s swords often..?” With how protective he’d been of the other sword without ever using it, she doubted he ever used a long sword. She couldn’t imagine him having sparred with one long enough to recognize it. Yet he blushed when she asked, and she didn’t quite understand why.

He responded with a sputter and nearly dropped the blade. “Wren!” He fumbled as he all but pressed the sword back into her hands, face bright red once more. She took the sword and held it confused. She still didn’t see how her words had flustered him-- sure they could have been misconstrued as lewd but if she’d wanted to be lewd… she would have been more forward. She  _ would  _ be more forward. But later, perhaps. Even she could tell this wasn’t the time for that.

“Ernie you can keep it… Gotthard just sort of handed it to me-- oh! Llyod’s talismans can knock out mimics! Turns out Lothric has been using mimics to store treasures. He didn’t understand what was so important about this sword, but it’s been maintained and guarded well. Evidently it’s like a good luck thing to the soldiers stationed here…”

“Wren, no. I can’t keep collecting the swords of my dead friends. That’s… not healthy. None of this is but… I think I’d like you to keep it. Consider it a way for him to keep watching out for us. The gods are dead but…” He smiled, softly but genuinely. “Yeah, actually that does make sense. As a relic it makes sense. It would have been left behind-- so would his shield but that probably didn’t survive. When I carried him to the flame, it was just him. If his sword survived… it would have been reclaimed, I think.”

He took her hand.

“Maybe the flames do guide us. If Solaire’s in that fire, then he’s watching out for us. Wren. I need to talk to you. About something more important. About the Flame.”


	47. Discussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialog heavy chapter.

They sat across from each other, the fire between them. “Ernie… What are we going to do?” She had seen and felt it too. The gaping hole in the sky where the sun once shined. The godless world about them where men and women went hollow and filled with darkness like stagnant ponds after a rain without the sweet relief of flowing water. Her eyes were dark and brown and pleading, but Ernest had no real answer. He sat, cross legged, and poked the ashes of the fire.

“I don’t know.” He nudged some of the bone ash away from the flame. “Do… you believe me? That I made it to the Kiln all those years ago?”

“I-- yeah! Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s a bold claim.” He nudged the ash back into its place though it seemed to have burned for all it was worth already. “When Oscar and I first went on our journey, we were going to kindle it. We were going to follow in Lord Gwyn’s footsteps and extend the age of Fire. We would bring relief to every person who suffered. We met two serpents, Frampt and Kaathe. Frampt championed the idea of a chosen undead linking the flame, and Kaathe did the opposite. Humans came from the Dark. We see that even now, but neither serpent cared for man. They simply sought power. Kaathe would have had us destroy Gwyn and leave the flame, but that wouldn’t have done it. That would have… I don’t know. Put us where we are now.”

“But you weren’t gonna kindle it, Ernie. That was a mistake, right? You had a plan?” She scooted around the fire closer to her mentor  _ hoping  _ that he had some idea. Some plan of action. When he frowned so deeply as he did then, it frustrated her. It seemed that it was all he could do some days, and she hated it. 

“Not… really. We were just going to let it fade out… We would kill Gwyn, then stand guard for however long it took. I’d already been fading for a century-- I would know that better than anyone but… Oh gods.” He looked past her into nothing, his frown turning into fear of the truth and realization. “We were going to fail anyway. It didn’t matter-- the dark sign. We were already feeding the flame. Every single undead. Every soul fed, every humanity burned… The embers, Wren. Those were humanities. Little abyssal sprites. The fire was… eating us alive. And we just satiated it a little longer…” He lifted his hand over his breast, over his heart, over the missing dark sign. “We went hollow because of the flame. Oscar and I knew this, and that’s why we swore to get rid of it but… but we didn’t think about that part. About everyone going hollow just for it to die.”

Wren set her hand on his wrist and squeezed. “We could kick dirt on it. Maybe scatter the embers? How big do you think it is? Can’t be that big if it’s burning out…” Her voice was cautiously raised. She wanted to make light of it before he slipped. He snorted. His beard shifted in a telltale smile, and Wren let out a small breath of relief. “Wren… it’s not a fire like a torch. It’s made of… I don’t know. Souls. But you might be onto something. We could… ask Anabelle. The firekeeper. The worst she can do is say no, but…”

“But?” Wren leaned a little closer. “Hey Ernie. Did you notice how the sky grew darker  _ after  _ we took down Yhorm. I think we’re already on the way to stamping it out.” She nudged him and smiled, though more and more it felt like an act on her part. She was growing tired of being so peppy. Like she had to cheer on everyone. Like she had to cheer on Ernest. He must have seen it in her face, as his brows knitted in thought.

“Wren. I’m sorry--” “Don’t you dare start on that Ernest of Berenike.” “No. I mean, well.” He hummed. “I hadn’t been honest with you. Not entirely. I’ve been pretending I’m fine, and I’m not. And we both know it.”

“Obviously.” She glowered down at him. 

“I’ve been treating you like a child, when really you’re my peer. And I’ve put you in danger over it. Then I’ve been acting like I was the only one hurting. Though you really had me fooled for awhile Wren--”

“It’s because I can’t remember.”

Ernest stopped in shock. For all of his curse, he could remember everything. Every death. Every friend. Parts of his homeland. The sun on Oscar’s back. The warmth of Laurentius’s embrace. The (relative) softness of calloused hands and chapped lips. Waving blond hair in the breeze, curling black hair at odd angles from a helmet.

“I remember I had a home. I remember Mirrah in pieces. There was a beautiful swamp. I remember one night like a dream. I was out on a boat in the dark, and the moon shone so brightly in the water. I could see the sky in the swamp. I remember my prayers. I remember facts. I remember how to do things, but I can’t remember my mother. My family. I remember bits and pieces. Remembered like a dream.” Ernest leaned into her and wrapped his arm around her. 

“I remember I had friends,” she continued. “I had companions when I became undead. We never made it far. I don’t remember dying or going hollow. I remember the legends of Aslatiel and Lucatiel-- our nation’s greatest swordsmen, brother and sister, and how they disappeared during a cycle of undeath. But I forgot so much. What if I forget Irina? What if I forget you?”

“Wren…” He pulled her tight into a hug. He’d always been good with hugs. He was firm and round and warm. “If you forget me, I’ll remember you. I have yet to forget anyone.”

She sat rather limp in his arms before eventually reaching up and patting his shoulder. “I’ll take it… Ernie, I don’t want to mope. Tell me why you’re moping. I can handle that better…”

He held her without letting go. “Like most everyone, I saw all my friends, family, neighbors, comrades, acquaintances, allies, and enemies die or go hollow.” It felt worse saying it aloud. Like it was some trivial fact. “My homeland was the first nation to fall to the curse, and our neighbors fell shortly after. Two entire kingdoms marched to the land of the lords-- Lordran. The human population had not quite yet fallen to the curse by the time we arrived, but we were initially welcomed. But the people swiftly fell after our arrival, and so did many of our number. It’s… hard seeing civilians die and become aggressive. Murdering each other for souls… A hundred years. For the first thirty years, we tried to protect the sane, but it was doomed from the start. And I… abandoned my post.”

“I met various people throughout my wanderings. I tried to lock myself away to prevent my hollowed body from hurting anyone, but I met Solaire. He had no idea what I was doing, but he was so warm-- much like you-- and I decided I could go on a little longer. I met Oscar, who needed me as badly as I needed him. Laurentius… Wary… Oscar was the first person I’d grown attached to in a long while, and after him it was so easy to become connected once more. And the more I cared, the more alive I was, but the more I cared, the more it hurt. Laurentius went hollow, and I blamed myself for so long… The Wary was… He was a knight. Of Berenike. He did what he had to, but it was. It was as painful as it was comforting to find him. Then they all died in the flame. And I blame myself. And I can’t let that happen again.”

Wren held onto him more tightly. She didn’t need to say she was sorry. They both felt the same. She felt the ever present need to brighten the room, but she fought it. She would not repress this any more than it already had been. And from it came a little clarity. “That’s why you hang on Hawkwood then. Isn’t it? You’re not just afraid he’s going to die.”

He sighed, tired and a bit defeated, and relaxed his grip on her. “It’s not every day you find someone else who’s the last survivor of an undead legion. Survivor’s guilt is a horrible affliction. It’s… good to have someone who understands. More importantly, he has incredible legs. It’s hard to tell with his armor but--” “Ernie ew! Stop it!” She smacked his arm, and he giggled. “I think he’s moving on though… I’m proud of him. When I last saw him, he’d found peace… I uh. I would think that’d make you happy. Probably won’t see him again.”

“I don’t hate him, Ernie.”

“No? You act like you do. You never have anything nice to say about him.”

“No, Ernie. I don’t. Because I still don’t like him, and I’ll be glad if he’s gone for good, but it’s because of what he does to you.” He pulled back and canted his head. “Every time you talk to him, you come back sadder. You seem ok, then you talk to Hawkwood, and it’s like you’re breaking down. You sag a little. You get quieter. Even last time, when you two were being gross, you were  _ even sadder  _ than you’d ever been. That’s not normal. You don’t do what you two did and come out worse for it…”

The fire crackled as a bone in it broke and fell to pieces. It crumbled into parts, and each part began to burn more brightly than the whole. Ernest watched it, thinking on what she had said. When he spoke, it was in a subdued voice. “You’re right.” She shook her head in surprise. “For so long I was afraid he would rot into nothing, because I saw so much of my own past in his. I saw a peer, and I was terrified at how alike we were. Then I wanted to help him up out of it. I don’t know if I did, but when he climbed out of it, I was afraid he would die. I’m so afraid of losing people…” His head hung. “What if I did inspire him, and what if he died because of it? Then I saw him for the first time in so long, and I was so happy to see him, but…” He dragged a hand over his face. “We fought a mad king-- a man who had tried to become a dragon. Hawkwood nearly died. That dragon-man had an infant, and he murdered the child in front of us. We had gone to it to find the source of an odd noise-- never expected that.”

His breath became shaky as he remembered Oceiros and the darkened dream. Wren, horrified, pulled him back into her arms. “And after that, I kept chanting-- that prayer I taught you. The dream I had… It was a nightmare. And I was so glad just to be alive and to have him alive, I got ahead of myself. Then after that, we… I don’t know. Some shared dream or something. That all went to hell too-- gods damned. You’re right.” His brows furrowed with some new found determination. “You can let go of me, Wren. It’s ok. But the next time I see him, I’m gonna kiss him, and it’s not going to be out of desperation. It’s going to be because I want to kiss him. Like a normal romantically inclined man.” He nodded, happy with his proclamation. “I had wanted to do for him what Oscar did for me, but to hell with that. And…” Ernest smiled up at Wren again. “I can’t be an Oscar for someone since I can only really be me. But you, Wren. You’re a hell of a friend.”

She had been quiet during his half rant. Her face belied confusion, amusement, and worry. “Thanks, Ernie. You’re a hell of a friend too, but I can’t believe you did all of that with Hawkwood and only got some weak kissing. One of you needs to up your game. Maybe… play with each other’s swords?” She grinned, knowingly and mischievously, but to her dismay, Ernest raised an eyebrow and said, “Wren. Do you know what it means to ‘walk in the light of the Darkmoon’? This might surprise you since I have such rugged good looks and such fine facial hair and a warm voice like hot rocks on a river beach but… I don’t have a sword of my own. Never have. But uh.” He winked. “Can’t say anyone’s ever complained.”

Her face crinkled in the horror of learning something intimate about someone she considered a brother who then made a lewd joke about it. He beamed in his victory of making her more uncomfortable than she made him.

“Oh gods, Ernie! I regret everything!” 

“Now Wren, I know you like ladies and that might lead you to believe you never have to worry about properly handling swords but--”

“No! No! We are not having this talk! Please… Let’s go back to sad things like the world ending... “


	48. They Came in Pairs

They did not have The Talk. They did not need to have  _ that Talk.  _ Though their relationship bordered between father-daughter and brother-sister, neither of them had any intention to continue that discussion. Wren had had parents who had likely already given  _ that talk,  _ and Ernest had died without ever having taken a squire or starting a family. Or… no. He vaguely remembered a round face and small hands trying to carry a sword bigger than the body that held it.  _ When you’re knighted, Guillame, I’m going to suggest “the Eager” as your title.  _ Ernest blinked, and the memory was gone. 

Wren watched as his face shifted. She was beginning to recognize that thoughtful expression as an indication of Ernest slipping, but he returned to her as if he’d simply been distracted. “So… Ernie. No more secrets. You ok?”

“I uh. I think so. You ever get a flash of a memory you didn’t know you had? Like a memory of a dream.”

“You tell me if you’re slipping mister.” She glowered. She had the benefit and the curse of no memory, but she didn’t envy how Ernest came and went. “Now… Gotthard gave me a key and showed me some things. There’s old passages, and I think we can take them to that bridge before the archives. He showed me how to get that far, and then from there we can make our way through the archives to the last lord…” With a hop and a wink, she pulled back the carpet and dropped a key in what looked like a chip in the stone. Ernest watched as she tugged on it, and in a mere moment the stone popped up like a hatch. “There’s a ladder, Ernie, so don’t just jump down…”

They crawled down the ladder, Wren first, and began to walk the cold dark hall of the servant’s passage. Wren kept her small flame going just enough to see, but Ernest kept his hidden. He still had no desire to expose such an intimate part of himself no matter how impractical it was to continue to obscur it. He followed her almost blindly until she reached a split in the path. What he did not see in front of her was a ladder that reached impossibly high, but when she began to climb it he followed after.

“Gotthard showed you all of this?” He puffed as he climbed the ladder. There was something about the air that made it a bit hard to breathe. 

“Oh yeah! And he gave me the key to it! I figured we could explore a little bit when we’re done here, but… maybe not.” At the top of the ladder, she popped the hatch into an empty room. Ernest followed up after her, turned towards a window, and poked it. “There.” He said looking out. “That’s where we need to go next.” Beyond was some great building and a likely hiding place for lordlings. Without a second thought, Ernest popped the window out of its frame and looked down. It wasn’t a far fall. Only about a few feet. Nothing dramatic, and they didn’t want to risk running into more hollows. So Wren mounted the sill and hopped out of it. 

It was the same barracks that Gotthard had shown her before, but there was still a long path before they reached the bridge to the archives. She waited for Ernest to hop down after her and stifled a giggle as his shoulders briefly got stuck. He wiggled and knocked loose small bits of stone and dust before toppling out and landing with a roll. He stood, brushed himself off, and looked about them.

They were in an open pathway. It was covered but he could see out across the kingdom. The Farron Woods, Irithyl-- the same view he had on the top of the wall. To his right the path led to a heavy door. To his left the path led to a decaying structure that looked like it might have once been an old chapel. He found it odd that this castle, a place with such grand architecture, would have left a chapel to go to such waste. “So if we go through that door, it’ll take us towards the bridge. I think. And then to the archives where we can probably meet up with Gotthard and Eygon.”

“Now hold on Wren. I want to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong.” He pointed to his left. “Why do you think they let that fall to ruin?”

“Uh, I dunno Ernie. But there’s probably a blood monster and something horrible in it…”

“Aww come on now, Wren. Where’s uh. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Busy being dormant so we can finish this-- Ernie!” She grabbed him by his collar before he could bound off to the ruined building. “I’m  _ not  _ having a repeat of my nap! You said you wouldn’t run off without me! And we’re not going down to that obviously dangerous place just so you can ‘poke your nose’ in it. Now come on!” She gave him a yank, and he followed after her like a chastised dog.

In the building behind them, though they would not see it, the wood had burned from drake flames. Books had scattered and ruined in both fire and rain. A sun faded carpet laid tattered and worn before a smashed statue of an old god. It would have been a familiar statue if they had seen it.

The heavy door led them through a room full of books and snuffed out candles. It was dark save for light weakly streaming in through a stained glass window. Wren idly wondered how colorful it must have been with true sunlight and candles, but they passed through too quickly for her to think long on it. Beyond the heavy doors was a sort of courtyard. One open archway lined with hollowed bodies led back to the fire from whence they had come through a large church and mausoleum. Another door, further down, led to a smaller chapel. The only other door was the one they had arrived through, and the last path was that of the bridge. 

Both Ernest and Wren wrinkled their noses at the sky above them, for drifting in the wind were long distended undead floating about like dandelion puffs. They had sprouted wings of sorts like tree roots, and somehow, despite all that Ernest knew to be true, these treelike appendages seemed to allow them to fly. Wren looked at him with a mix of horror and disgust, and when he nodded in agreement, they moved on. Best not to look up anymore.

They stepped across the bridge, eager to get back into a building where they didn’t have to see the sky or those ‘butterflies’. The empty armor of knights lay strewn, and in their focus, they nearly missed the old grey armor of a dragon slayer. Ernest first kicked a gauntlet and sent it flying with a soft squish, then Wren stumbled over the shield. They paused in awe at the size of it. The knight who wore it had to have been lord-kin, for it would have fit someone no shorter than ten feet. 

“Ernie…” Wren poked the armor, and the same dark liquid that had filled the drakes and the hollows seeped out. “Ernie what the hell is wrong with this place? Do you… Do you think there was a person in there?”

“I hope not…” He watched her poke it with amused disgust at first then slowly disappointment. Behind her lay a familiar suit of armor. “Oh no… Wren…” She turned and startled. “What are we gonna tell Irina..?”

Egyon’s armor had been wrent in half. There was no flesh within. No inky blackness. No blood. No fire. Just fine ash. Wren looked to Ernest for guidance, but she found none on his face. He frowned, one corner of his lip pulled back in thought. “We don’t have to tell her, Ernie. Or we could…” She knelt down by the ashes and armor and fished around for  _ something  _ to put him in. A pouch. A bottle. Something to give Irina. 

Ernest knelt beside her and instead began pulling his armor apart and letting his ashes blow free in the wind. Wren stopped, confused, and stared at Ernest waiting for an explanation. He gave none at first. Simply pulled out his red and white talisman and said a small prayer-- something about the storm and the hills, laid the armor out in repose, and then placed a sunlight medallion, one of his few left, on top of it. “We’ll tell her he died fighting a great monster, and we gave him a proper send off of the Gods.” 

She nodded, and they continued.

It was strange to Ernest to be in a castle town so high above the rest of the world. There were walls boarded up just as the Burg had once been, but this reminded him more of the streets of Anor Londo than the undead burg he had once lived in. Though he had never been able to walk the streets of Anor Londo, home of the gods, he had looked at them from above with the pair of binoculars he shared with his companions. The buildings now were tall and dark, windows boarded and doors locked. He found it odd how few stray dogs there were, but those that did appear either kept to themselves or quickly fled. He had never liked killing the hounds.

The grand archives were impossible to miss. They had followed the road straight from the bridge as it was the widest road that led in the direction of the castle proper. It crested a small hill and revealed the massive doors to the archive already opened. A small bit of relief came over Ernest as he saw the doors. It meant they were so much closer now, but as they came into view, Wren cried out as if she’d been struck. He dropped to one knee, shield raised and talisman ready only for her to charge forward towards a body just feet away from the opened doors. 

He faltered as he recognized a black cape and wide brimmed hat. A heart beat later, he was running after Wren and to Gotthard’s body. “No no no!” She hovered over him, hands splayed as if she could do something. “Ernie he can’t be dead-- He’s not ash! Ernie we need to do something!” The knight just stood there, looking at his corpse. “Ernie! Do something!” Three arrows pierced clear through him, the dark stain of blood and the telltale smell of poison coating their broken heads and shafts.

“Wren…” He knelt, hand on her shoulder and hand on Gotthard’s back. “Oh Wren… I’m so sorry…” She shoved him away, but he pulled her closer. “Wren he was undead. Not unkindled.” When she began to cry, he began to cry. Watching his friend, his sister-daughter, sob broke through to him, and though he was not nearly as fond of Gotthard as she had been, he felt almost like she did. She sobbed, voice cracking and hiccuping, in his arms, and he rocked side to side sobbing and hiccuping in the same way.

“Ernie… he was too skilled… a hollow couldn’t have done this…”

“You don’t know that… All it takes is one mistake--”

“I do know it! Gotthard was too good at this for that to happen! He was murdered!”

“Wren…” She pulled away, fury and sorrow coursing through her like a great river after a heavy rain. “We’re going to pay them back, Ernie. We’re gonna avenge him.” She stood, yanking on his hand and ready for blood, but he was lethargic. Slow. All of her rage still burned in her, but it burned out in Ernest. He wanted nothing more than to lay down and sleep until the Dark took them all, but he knew he had to somehow bring  _ about  _ the Dark. He had to be proactive. He couldn’t risk being passive again. “Come on, Wren… Let’s go.”

The archives were empty. They stepped through the open doors to find the body of a sage strewn out on the floor as if they had simply fallen dead. The corpses of scholars covered in wax had fallen similarly, and though the two of them looked for wounds or trauma of any sort, they could find none. Dread settled in Ernest. Something more subtle and terrifying had killed these people than anything he had encountered yet. The archives reached several floors above them with the soft glow of candles on the highest floor near a great bay of stained glass windows. Ernest thought for a moment he could hear voices, but he wasn’t sure.

They progressed as quietly as they could climbing stairs and ladders. Each floor had more of the eerie corpses laid out. Scholars with candles burnt out in their hands or books strewn about them. As though they had simply fallen without being aware of their impending death. Wren clung close to him as if proximity would save them, but she was afraid. They were both deeply afraid. They crept alongside book cases towards the candle light. Ernest raised a fist when he heard a voice. He couldn’t make it out, but there were two very distinct voices. A hushed almost bored voice, and another lilted one. 

Wren paused with him, her face full of apprehension. She strained to hear what they were saying.  _ Can you hand me the one you just put down? About -- yes. Thank you.  _ Her shoulders fell and she elbowed Ernest before marching out of their hiding spot. “You two do this?” She announced herself loudly before coming out in the clear. Orbeck and Melody scrambled for a moment then settled back. “Ah. Um. Yes. Yes we did.” Melody, the one with the lilted voice and spindly body, bobbed side to side as he spoke. “Much easier than a knife, yes?” Orbeck simply glared at her. The two of them had melted wax on their foreheads, and despite the strangeness of it, Wren didn’t care enough to ask.

“Who killed Gotthard?” She crossed her arms and glared defiantly. Ernest swiftly joined her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Did you see it? Who killed my friend?”

“Gotthard?” Orbeck’s brows shifted, and perhaps, Wren thought, he just always looked like he was glaring. “The man in black? Out before the doors? He was a friend of yours?” He looked to Melody, expression the same, and nodded. “Wren of Mirrah, you have paid me time and time again for a service you have never accepted.” He stood, and his friend joined him. “Allow me to fulfil my debt to you in another manner.” The two men reached for catalysts they kept by their chairs, and before Wren could protest they had vanished. 

While Wren took her frustration out on a chair and stomped forward as if to leave, the two sorcerers took refuge in their silence and invisibility. Not too far from the archives was a group of three highly competent guards. A lion knight, an extremely accomplished sorcerer, and the last black hand all stood to protect their prince. The sorcerer should have recognized the mist that surrounded them, but it was as painless as it was deadly. The three of them fell without understanding what had killed them. Only the black hand had been undead and not ashen, so Orbeck drew a knife across his dead throat. Dead men do not bleed.

Ernest grabbed Wren’s shoulder to stop her from stomping off further, but she fumed. “Fulfill my debt-- what’s that supposed to mean? Ernie where did they go? Argh I should have actually taken him up on learning magic. Why did I put it off? Now he’s off doing something-- You think he knows who did it and won’t say? You think he’s protecting--” A ladder fell from its perch above a bookcase nearer the wall. Wren twisted out of Ernest’s grip ready to fight, but one after the other, the two sorcerers slid down and joined them. Melody in blue stained with ash, and Orbeck in black fading into grey. Melody offered his hand to his friend who either did not see it or ignored it. He looked tired, older somehow, and pinched his brow before waving his hand away at the pair. 

“It is done.” Wren stared at the two of them. She had only ever seen them together pouring over a scroll or in some manner bent over. Her frustration briefly faded as she gawked at how obscenely tall Melody was. Orbeck was a perfectly average and acceptable height. A little taller than her, as was expected. Melody was… a good head and a half taller than the other sorcerer, though he had thinner shoulders and no real meat to him. He hunched, curling in on himself when he saw her stare. His hands pulled close to his chest as he began to rub his knuckles and look away from her. The floor. Orbeck’s shoes. The book shelves. Anywhere but at her. “I cannot repay the debt I owe you so easily, but that should be worth something.” Orbeck, having noticed her wide eyes, glared. It was a glare this time. She could recognize that hint of controlled vitriol. She would have given that same look if someone had gawked at Ernest like she did at Melody.

“Wait you killed them!?” Her frustration returned. “Who did it? Why didn’t you let--” Ernest dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. 

“ _ Wren.  _ Revenge is not a path you ever want to take. You saw what I did to Patches without even knowing if Siegward was hurt…” She pulled away from him, tears welling in her eyes again, her face filled with hurt and betrayal. “Revenge is best left unsatisfied…” She glared at him, then turned to the two who had done the act. 

Her lip quivered as she tried to process it. Her friend had been murdered. She hadn’t been involved in avenging him. Two strangers who had no doubt taken the key from his body had killed his murderers, and she felt hollow. Filled with cold rain water. “Fine.” Her voice was sharp and cutting. “Fine. Orbeck.” She raised her hand as she tried to think. “Don’t ever pay me back again.”

The sorcerer continued to glare at her, but it lost its bite. He was tired. He and his companion had finally found their way to the archives, and it had wrapped them up in unexpected drama. Melody had shifted behind him as if taking shelter, a knuckle, the back of his hand, lightly pressed against Orbeck’s back. A reminder he was there, and though shouting had always easily cowed him, he wouldn’t flee. He would speak up for him. Drop-outs had to stick together.

“Uh, thanks Orbeck.” Ernest looked sadly from Wren to the two men. If Melody’s height struck him as odd, he didn’t show it. “I uh. I mean it. If someone took down Gotthard that easily, Wren and I wouldn’t really have been able to take them. Not head on like that. But uh, if you still want to repay your debt, which I don’t think actually counts. Since. Well really those scrolls were gifts. Not… payment. I never had any real intent to learn sorcery…” The sorcerer quirked a thin eyebrow. “There’s one last lord of cinder we need to take down. The prince. And uh… If you could help us clear the way…”

Neither knight could see it, but Melody pressed his knuckles more firmly against the small of Orbeck’s back. It was his silent reassurance that no matter what the man decided, he was with him. “Very well. If it’s the Lords of Cinder you seek, and if it will clear my debt once and for all, then I will join you.” He glanced back, and Melody nodded. “As will my companion. Here is what I can tell you.”

He stepped back to the table where he had been seated and shifted the books to one side. Then he placed two large tomes down about two feet from each other and laid three smaller books between them. “We are here in the archives.” He pointed to one of the larger books. “Across this bridge is the castle proper. It crosses back over from whence we came. It is the top of the main castle’s primary tower. Though there are more minor spires, this is where you would expect to find the more secluded and secure chambers. This is where you would find the royals.”

“You saw that trick of ours where we seemed to vanish,” the thin man spoke up, his voice like a bird’s. “It’s quite useful when you don’t want to waste time with fighting. We had to clear out the archives for obvious reasons but… That bridge is still well guarded. But there is an old elevator here--” he pointed to the second large book where the castle was supposed to be. “And it runs down to a chapel. An old knight had spotted me when I lost focus, so I tripped the elevator and kicked him down the shaft. It should return just as well as it went, and we won’t actually have to clear the way any more than we already have.”

“The prince is not alone. Even hollows speak.” Orbeck still managed to glare or glower. His expression never softened, not even to his friend. “The three we took care of now spoke of his knight and brother. Lorian. Once upon a time, Lorian was quite the military leader and accomplished swordsman. He vanquished a demon prince, supposedly, but the way the three spoke of him, he’s been wounded. A shadow of what he once was, he now follows at his brother’s heel. If you want the supposed lord of cinder, you’ll have to deal with both of them.”

“They’re not lords of cinder…” Ernest frowned at the books, the little map the man had cobbled together. “I don’t know why we need them… They don’t have any flame. Having them won’t open the way any more than it’s already been opened. What point is there in burning them…?” He sighed. “It doesn’t sit right by me at all…”

Wren reached and placed a hand on his wrist, tugging him away from his gloomy thoughts. “Well, maybe Ernie they don’t have to burn. Maybe we can talk to them. Maybe, since Lothric was born to be slaughtered, he’s come up with another plan. We might be in luck.”

He took a long breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Maybe. Look, Orbeck, Melody…. I don’t expect you to uh. To join us. You’ve cleared the way. That’s more than I really could have asked of you.” He looked up to meet their sharp gazes and wondered how Orbeck’s cold blue eyes were softer than Melody’s deep brown ones. The taller man stared him down like a hawk waiting for its prey to move so he could lunge for it. His dark eyes seemed to cut through the air, but in a moment the illusion was gone. His voice remained lilted but somehow colder. “We will be there. We have as much on the line as the two of you do.”

With a sigh and a nod, Ernest turned back the way he had come. Wren lingered, conflicting emotion roiling in her like a boiling pot filled with stones. Ernest did not wait for her, but she did not yet leave either. “You said there were three…” She sank against the table. “Three people killed Gotthard, but he only had arrows stuck in him….”

“There was a man in black with a bow and two foreign blades. A woman with a marvelous catalyst, and a man in heavy armor and furs with a great axe the likes of which I had not seen before.” Orbeck’s voice was calm, even, and almost warm. “You will not find their bodies as they have returned to ash.” A lie. The two of them had slit their throats and tossed them off the edge. 

“Gotthard wasn’t ash… he was still flesh. He was undead, but not unkindled.” Her brows knitted in thought. “Why would those other three be unkindled? How did you kill three of them when Gotthard couldn’t?”

“Because we played dirty.” Melody spoke up. He didn’t like killing. He was a smith. Not a murderer. Not an assassin nor a fighter nor anyone who should hold a blade against another being. “The scrolls you brought Orbeck revived magics long forgotten. One such spell allows us to conceal our form nearly perfectly. A spell Orbeck learned long ago allows us to conceal our footsteps and move silently. They never saw us coming.”

“And our weapon was an old trick the assassins of Vinheim hold near and dear. A mist you cannot feel. It kills you from within, and you will never be aware of it. Not if you don’t already know its tells. But you cannot follow us without these magics, and your companion has already left.” With a jolt, Wren looked around and saw that Ernest had indeed left her. In a panic, she bolted after him.

But she need not worry. He simply tended to Gotthard at the door. He lifted the man’s body and placed it so that his swords rested beneath his hands upon his chest. He broke the arrows so that his chest was seemingly unmarred. “He was your friend, Wren.” He stood and stepped back. “You should. Send him off.” She knelt beside the body, chime in hand, and cried softly before ringing it. Whatever prayer she said, she kept it to herself. 

The two sorcerers moved silently through the crowd of hollows and abyssal knights. They waited by great doors listening for the elevator’s chains twist and bump against the metal pulley. Melody kept watch on the time through a soft song as the movement of the sun meant nothing any more. Orbeck found himself annoyed with it. The song itself was fine, and while Melody was by no means a decent singer, he was more annoyed that the man kept his voice just quiet enough that he couldn’t properly parse it. He strained to make sense of it, and that strain bothered him.

“Melody--” As he began to confront the man who  _ immediately shrunk  _ as if ridiculed, the elevator began to crank and rise. The other man took Orbeck’s start to simply mean he was more aware of the situation, nodded, and disappeared around the side. With a pursed smile, Orbeck followed suite.

Wren and Ernest found exactly what they had expected. A great door with no one standing guard and no one waiting for them. For a moment, they stopped to survey the sky and lands beyond. It was bathed in orange and fire, but the sun had not changed. It remained the very symbol of undeath-- a black pit ringed in flame. Moving in unison, they pushed on one of the great doors and opened the way into a long hall. Statues of hooded figures lined the walls, but they did not stop to look. Either they would find a lordling at the end of the hall through the last set of doors, or they would have to climb further throughout the castle, scurrying to find their absconded lord. The last door protested as they pushed, but it was not locked. 

It led them to a dim room. A dusty room. It smelled as though it had been shut for years. Dust and ash clung to every surface. The light through the windows themselves seemed pale and grey. A soft veiled figure sat upon a bed or perhaps an altar at the far end of the room. It shifted, and with it came a gentle voice. A weak voice.

“Oh dear. Another dogged contender..?” He turned to face the two of them, and he saw not two reasonable undead but simply more murderers there for his ashes. “Welcome, Unkindled Ones, purloiners of souls.” He stretched out his hand, knobbly and long, in greeting. “Mind you--”

“Do you rehearse that?” Ernest cut the man off. “It sounds rehearsed.”

The man’s thin hand curled into a fist. “As royalty is it not my duty to greet all who seek me? And do you not seek me for my supposed duty? Well the mantle of a Lord interests me none. The curse, the legacy, it can all fade to nothing. You are unkindled. You know this curse-- you have tried to stem it before, but it returns just the same. Come. You’ve earned your rest.”

Ernest drew his blade and raised his shield as Wren darted beside him ready to defend his blind spots while he protected hers. “I would have thought a lordling would have a secondary plan. You can’t tell me that your plan was to just. Wait it out.” His voice raised in ire, though only Wren could feel the frustration in it. “You know more about lordship than anyone-- were you really just going to wait it out?”

There was the sound of dragging metal and heavy steps as the second prince pulled himself from behind his brother’s altar. “You Unkindled know truly nothing…” Lothric’s voice faded as he grew tired. With a flash of light, the maimed brother, Lorian, appeared just before them with a massive greatsword in hand. It burned with the flames of a long dead demon, and it cut between the two knights. Ernest dodged forward and cursed. Wren’s spear skittered out of reach, and she drew her side arm. The blade felt warm in her hand as if she’d already been holding it, but this was the first time she’d drawn it in battle. With a cry, she summoned flame in her off hand and flung it at the knight. 

It broke upon his face, and for a moment he faltered. Ernest took that chance to leap upon his back with the sun in his hand and drive a pillar of lightning through him. The knight made no noise but fell prone. With another flash of light, he rose on his knees far above the two undead and continued his assault. His blade did not need to connect to harm the undead, and though he had once been the most capable of all his line, his brother’s curse had crippled him. He fought on his knees, his hands shaking, his body not listening to the commands he gave it. Still, he was far more formidable than the undead could have imagined. 

Their shields meant nothing to his blade, and quickly the knight abandoned his. With both hands he wielded his greatsword though he kept his red and white talisman tucked in his grip. His blade sparked with sunlight, and though the rest of the kingdom had fallen to the Dark and the prince had claimed to welcome it, the one he fought was filled with Fire. To fight fire with fire was a fool’s errand especially when the opponent’s flame was so much stronger. His blade cut into Ernest’s, dulling it with every deflection and every parry. But Wren seemed to keep up.

She had always been nimble. Dodging the flaming sword reminded her of her pyromancer. Fear the flame. Guide the flame. It was not her fire, but she could still reach it. There was a primal flame to it-- not a human one, but a chaotic one. When Lorian struck out at her, the flames bowed away. Ernest could not see what was happening, but he was amazed at how she stood strong. She inspired him. With each strike, she grew bolder and more in control. The fire of his sword spoke to the fire in her hand. It was alive. Beautiful.  _ Terrifying.  _

Lothric watched the fight fully confident that his brother would take care of it. He always had. He always would. Even burdened with a curse that was not his own, Lorian had always come out on top. And with each blow he took, Lothric was there to heal him, to cast a miracle to bind the flesh and ease the burns. It was then he felt a hand-- a  _ human  _ hand on his jaw. He tried to cry out-- “Brother!” But a cold knife drew across his throat. He sputtered, silenced, and the same knife drove through his back. 

Lorian, bound by the curse, faltered. He forgot the undead who he fought and tried to drag himself to his brother, but before he could reach him, a painful battery of soul magic hit him. Spear after spear of crystal magic tore through his armor until he could barely move. As he reached, his voice broken and silent but still crying for his dead brother bleeding out like a fountain, a final cannon of magic broke him.

Melody stood by the altar with a catalyst in hand. He panted, horrified at the magic he’d just displayed. The intense power he had wrought. The amount of it that it had taken just to kill the prince. Orbeck stood above them, his spells fading and bringing him into visibility. His hands were bloody with his act. He knelt down and carved into the body before removing what looked like a hot ember the size of his fist. He stumbled down as the princes’ bodies turned to ash. He staggered towards Wren then pressed the hot ember into her disbelieving hands.

“And that.” He spoke breathlessly. “Will be my last assassination. I will not be taking any further payment of any kind.” He stepped back and leaned into his friend who readily pulled him into a protective embrace. Wren watched them then turned to Ernest with sudden horror. There were no more Lords. 


	49. Sawgrass

Someone had stepped through the mausoleum and arranged the bodies of the Watchers. It wasn’t quite in the manner of the Watchers, but it seemed that whoever had done it had tried to mirror the monuments left in front where the dead had remained still at the toll of the bell. The body of a watcher did not hold the spirit. It was a transient form that would rot and turn to earth and ash. There was no monument for the body, for the Watchers favored mass graves to remove the flesh and catacombs to store the bones. It was, primarily, an issue with space. The Catacombs of Carthus had somehow merged with the catacombs of the watchers, but long ago their dead were one works of art. Skulls and bones stacked into magnificent patterns and lined the walls. A few hung from the ceiling. So detached from the human form that the remains no longer registered as remains.

Hawkwood knew these things. He knew that the honor to a fallen Watcher was to take the blades and add them to the legion’s hill. It was a sprawling pathway to the mausoleum that once led to the Great Wolf, but time and distortion had broken the stone and flooded the woods. The blades were a monument to the cause, to their vigil, and never to the individual.

He had deserted the Legion. He would not have his blade added to theirs, but he knew what was proper. 

Yet standing in the entrance way he couldn’t bring himself to change what had been done. Someone had stepped through and done this kindness. It was not quite right, but it was solid. It was honorable. It was something he had come to take care of but found himself doing too late. A small smile fell upon his tired face. He was familiar with the pair who had brought the Legion down once and for all. He had watched the girl and the man place their ashes with a gentle respect upon the throne. He didn’t need to question who had done this. He didn’t need to question their motive. 

He already knew.

\---

Ernest worried for the man he wanted to call his friend, but he also felt confident in him. The first time he’d fought alongside Solaire of Astora he’d been filled with awe. The strength of his faith and his sword brought great creatures and Ernest himself to their knees. When he’d first fought alongside Hawkwood, their quarry had been so great a monster he could not remember the battle. But after that… He never should have doubted the man.

Despite his admiration and affection, Hawkwood wasn’t on his mind. Ernest stood by the bonfire within the shrine pulling at his beard. Wren had stepped down to talk to Irina, to ask her about the miracles she’d read for her, and Ernest had other things to do. He needed Andre to take a look at his gear and help him repair the overworked blade. Though holy in and of itself, he would eventually ask Irina to once again bless his side arm. Perhaps he would do that after seeking Andre. Wren would appreciate time alone with Irina, and the smith was on his way towards Irina. The girls didn’t often get to spend time together alone.

And so it was Ernest headed for the smith and towards the sound of steel on whetstone. Andre paused sharpening the blade of a scythe when he saw Ernest approach. “I was hoping to see y’ Ernest.” He smiled, his beard moving with his lips. 

“Really now? I’m flattered.” Ernest sat across the anvil from him. “Andre, I always make a point to say hello. Did I miss an anniversary? I don’t actually know what day of the week it is...”

“No such thing.” Andre chuckled. His laugh felt like a shot of estus every time Ernest heard it. Warmth ran down his spine, flooded his liver, and sat comfortably throughout him. “No. That arse, Hawkwood, left this for you.” He pulled a blade of bloodied sword grass from beside him and handed it to Ernest who smiled as he took it. “Something dire. He’s changed a great deal since he left this place.”

“Hawkwood?” His voice rose like a mote of dust in a ray of sunlight. “I haven’t-- Wait. Dire? Are you sure? He just sounds like that. And looks like that…”

“Aye. Dire. Graven of face he was. Now I didn’t read it. So don’t be askin’ me about it. I saw him in yer arms the other day though, so if he’s sending a message instead of waitin’ for ye...”

Ernest turned it over in his hand. The message had been carved into it with some sort of blade or stylus, but more concerning was the blood that had run along the sharp edge of it and dried mid-flow over the carved words. He didn’t understand the significance of it, and it scared him. “Come to the mausoleum in Farron,” he murmured, his blood running cold. “Andre… How quickly can you get my gear in order?”

The connective link in his left shoulder was weak and wearing thin. The leather padding that prevented his armor from digging into his right knee was falling apart. His left gauntlet had burned to near failure in his last encounter with a lord, but he forwent all of that in favor of a sharpened blade. Ernest left the shrine without a word to Wren-- if she sought him out, Andre could direct her. 

_ Come to the mausoleum in Farron.  _

There was no warning, no reason given, just a command, and it terrified him. He had been a part of the Berenike knights since his youth. Squired for a woman, The Restless, when he was seven and was knighted as the Devoted when he was sixteen. At thirty-six the curse had hit his nation. In those twenty years he’d lost enough brothers and sisters to the plaguing guilt. He felt the guilt upon his own shoulders, oppressive and dominating. He prayed to whatever gods were left that this message was not the cry for help he read it to be.

\---

Hawkwood knelt by the body of a Watcher and silently prayed for them. He had returned with his blades-- no longer the bastard sword and shield he’d substituted them for. He was no more worthy of the Farron weaponry now than when he had left, but he was ready to move on. He was ready to take on the role of a man who fought for the world and for himself. No longer a deserter who fled from duty, though he would never have been able to stomach the Watchers’ actions. 

He startled when he heard footsteps running towards the mausoleum. Ernest charged through the open door then skidded to a halt when he saw Hawkwood. 

“I--” He was breathing heavily, panting almost. “Gods damn, Hawkwood. What’s going on? Why are you here? Don’t-- Don’t…” He bent over slightly and dropped his hands. 

“Don’t what?” Hawkwood rose. His movement languid and slow. His brows creased and knotted as he looked Ernest over. Some great panic had brought the man to him, but he could not fathom what. He had simply asked him to join him at the mausoleum… His brows drew close as he studied Ernest’s blatant fear. It did not occur to him that he might have feared some form of self harm. Even when he had been at his lowest, he had been a survivor. Now with his great peace, it wasn’t something he could possibly consider.

Ernest smiled and began to chuckle. He straightened then closed the gap between them and pulled the other man into a tight and desperate embrace. “Hawkwood…” His voice was barely above a whisper, tired and near tears. “You can’t just send a message to meet you somewhere like this. The mausoleum? Do you understand what that sounded like? I thought.” He grabbed at the man’s back, his cape bunching in Ernest’s fists. “I thought I was going to find you laying out with the rest of the bodies.”

“ _ What? _ ” His companion’s voice was incredulous. Hawkwood didn’t know how to respond-- Ernest’s words felt like a bucket of freezing water on a warm day. So shocked was he that he barely returned the embrace. “Ernest. No.” A moment passed, and Hawkwood pulled away from the man. “I…” The knight’s face was red with emotion. His eyes glassy with fear almost realized. It was then that Hawkwood pulled him back and returned the hug proper. 

Ernest was short enough that Hawkwood could rest his chin on top of the other man’s head. They had half a foot between them, but it was enough to nest into each other like dove tailed carpentry. He held onto the knight, eyes closed in thought and appreciation when it hit him.

He cared. They had walked similar paths. They’d seen their friends rise and fall and go hollow. Countless years had left them both jaded and sensitive, but Ernest cared still. It didn’t matter why. Ernest cared so much for him that he ran to him the moment he feared for him. Tears burned at his eyes, and he held his knight just a little tighter.

“No. Ernest… I wanted to ask you-- no. I wanted to  _ thank  _ you on behalf of the Watchers.” He leaned back enough to look the other in the eyes. His glassy hazel eyes framed with dirt and thick brows. “You put them to rest, and you honored them. I came here to tend to them, but you already did. I don’t understand. Why?”

“What?”

“Why, Ernest? Why did you do this? The world is falling apart. How long did this take you-- they tried to kill you. They weren’t even themselves anymore. And had they been, they were strangers. Why would you do this?”

“Hawkwood.” Ernest pulled out of the embrace and looked around them. “A beautiful man once told me that how we treat our dead is indicative of how we treat our living. He sought a way to administer a final death for those gone hollow. Eternal life in the form of undeath was in no way desirable thing, and he tried to ease the pain of… everyone really. I hope he’s dead. He deserved it, but he was right. Sometimes we just need to take a moment and honor our dead… Even if they tried to kill us.”

The knight returned his gaze to the Once-Watcher.

“That’s why you came here, isn’t it? They killed you, but you returned to honor them.”

“Yes. It was.”

Ernest looked to him with such intense admiration and affection that Hawkwood felt a heat like he was facing a flame. He blushed deeply, his ears and neck burning with it. He remembered again how Ernest had looked up at him after he’d drug him from the muck before the mad king. And his expression when he was trapped in a memory and mistook Hawkwood for someone else. 

“What a gentle man you must have once been.” Ernest shifted his hands to Hawkwood’s lower back. “What a gentle man you are becoming once again. I am in awe of you, really.” Unsure of how to respond to the rather sensual touch, Hawkwood remained still with his hands on Ernest’s shoulders. “In awe of me? I would accuse you of mockery if Irina hadn’t told me of your strange affectionate outburst after our mutual dream…” Ernest leaned forward and rested his head against his companion’s shoulder holding him as though they might have been dancing. 

“Yes. In awe. It’s one feat to have remained kind and gentle in the face of tragedy and horror. It is another to have given up on it only to choose to be kind again in spite of it all. To never fall is an amazing thing, but to have fallen and crawled back up is, in my opinion, a far more admirable act. I’m not wording that right. But I think you’re incredible.”

He felt as though tears should prick his eyes, but Hawkwood couldn’t summon them. He held Ernest, his embrace growing more firm, and bowed his head. “I don’t know which of those applies to you, but I am grateful for you.” His voice took on the soft tone he used in the shrine. “I am grateful that it was you and Wren who brought the Watchers to rest. I am grateful that you honored them in death. They were brutal in undeath, but…” He pulled back and looked over the mausoleum. “It’s quiet now. It will remain that way…”

Ernest let his hands slide off of his companion. He waited, his eyes watching Hawkwood’s as the man surveyed the room. He looked at it like someone looking over their home before leaving it for the last time. This mausoleum was a stranger to him now though it had once held great significance in his life. He nodded, as if satisfied, then turned to Ernest with a small and thin smile. 

“The Old Wolf has long since died, but its body is guarded, or was as there is no one left to do so, high above in the pillar of the great bridge. There is a way to reach the bridge, and from there you can see the ocean and all the broken lands. Come with me.” He gently lifted Ernest’s hands in his own. “I would like to show you something beautiful.”

Hawkwood smiled with the bashful excitement of a young man as he waited for Ernest’s answer. The knight, uncharacteristically quiet, simply lifted Hawkwood’s gloved hands to his lips and kissed his knuckles. The once-watcher, the acolyte of the dragon and the storm, looked to him with growing concern. His pale eyes flickered, and Ernest paused to admire him like a work of art.

“My dear companion, you already have. So many times. You are the most beautiful out of all of them.” Hawkwood turned a soft pink as Ernest canted his head and gently smiled. “But I would not turn you down. If you think something is beautiful… It must truly be so.” 

“We’ll have to walk through the muck…” Hawkwood looked down to avoid Ernest’s unwavering gaze. 

“What, you’re uh. Heh. You’re not going to carry me?” He met his companion’s eyes. So full of warmth and love was he, but Hawkwood canted his head in mild confusion and amusement. 

“You adopt a strange turn of phrase when you praise me.” Ernest’s mouth fell open in confusion and mild insult. 

“What? What’s that supposed to mean? Do you-- do you think I’m not being honest? I don’t-- Oh.  _ Ooh. _ ” He frowned and flushed. “My uh. My stutter. I lose my stutter.” He felt Hawkwood’s hand on his shoulder. They both knew it was more than just his stutter. “It’s uh.” He looked to that hand to avoid looking at his friend. “I uh. Hmm.” Ernest paused and took a steadying breath. “I do uh. Channel a bit of an old friend. You know how uh. We adopt our friends’ ways of speaking? My uh. My very dear companion was quite eloquent. His manner of praising rubbed off, and I fostered it. I liked how he made me feel with just a few words so uh. I don’t ah… stutter… like I am. Now. When I emulate him…”

“That’s not a stutter--”

“It would be if uh. If I didn’t pause like I do. Awkwardly. So. I’ve never been  _ mmm.  _ Been called out on this before.”

Ernest felt like an imposter. He felt like he’d been pretending to be someone he wasn’t, but that was a new feeling and one that had been surfaced through this unfortunate conversation. He was deeply tempted to claim he had to leave, but he would not let a moment’s anxiety take this from him.

“So uh.” He looked back up into those beautiful sandy eyes. “Are you going to carry me or should we start walking?”

They walked.

The swamp was as they had left it. The slugs still tried to eat them, and the goat-folk still tried to murder them. There was an apologetic look to Hawkwood for every goat-folk they killed, but they moved on just the same. They stopped at a large stone structure, a support for a massive bridge. A ladder ran up it, and Ernest tried to determine how high it went before Hawkwood mounted it, scraped his boots off on a lower rung, and smiled down to Ernest. “All of that armor isn’t going to slow you down, is it?”

“Pah. If it does, you’ll just have to wait on me anyways. Do me a favor and don’t kick shit in my eyes.”

“Don’t look up.”

“Maybe I want to watch you.”

“What?”

“What? You have nice legs. Ok, yeah that was bad.”

Before he could remedy his terrible flirting, Hawkwood had already begun to rapidly climb the ladder. Ernest followed at a reasonable pace, and about half way he stopped, looped his arm around a rung, and looked out. He was in the canopy, and yet he still had so much further to go. With renewed excitement at the prospect of seeing the swamp from above, he began to climb faster.

Hawkwood waited for him at the top of the ladder with a hand up, but when Ernest took it he saw they were only half way up the structure itself. He was visibly disappointed, but his companion only smiled in his tired way. “Come on then. Past the Old Wolf. Through here.” He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but Ernest slowly became aware of how Hawkwood’s voice had deepened. There was a strength to it. A confidence as the man spoke from his chest. It was deeply satisfying. 

His companion led him into the structure through a small doorway. Within it were the smouldering remains of a nearly snuffed out bonfire and, against the wall in the shadows, a dessicated wolf corpse. The beast was massive and surrounded by numerous pieces of armor and blades. The swords had been shoved into the armor as they could not pierce the stone, and for a heavy moment Ernest simply stared. Hawkwood took his hand and tugged him past the wolf onto a stone platform. Ernest recognized an elevator when he stepped on one, and once its pressure plate was triggered, they began to rise.

He was almost giddy. They were going to the top, and he would be able to see the swamp and beyond. He’d seen some of it from the castle walls, but it had been so very distant then. He’d been under fire or fighting for his life-- if Hawkwood were bringing him here, then he knew something Ernest didn’t. The elevator shaft was dark as they rose with the only light coming from above.

Hawkwood knew what was at the top. He had seen it countless times. What he had yet to see was something that would be precious to him. His eyes were on Ernest who waited with cautious enthusiasm. But when the elevator stopped at the top and the horizon was visible, Ernest’s mouth parted in awe. His eyes widened in disbelief, and in a moment of recklessness, he charged off. Hawkwood followed close behind him though he knew they were safe.

At the top of the structure pressed against a stone railing, Ernest could see the world. He could see the trees, the cathedral, the castle, the distant mountains. Most inspiring he could see the ocean. It was so far away, and yet it was within view. Though the sky was on fire, the water shimmered like gold. He flailed a hand looking to grab on to Hawkwood. 

“H--hawkwood! That’s! That’s the ocean!” He turned to his proud companion. “It’s so close!” Ernest found himself looking to the sea then to his friend in rapid succession. “We could go! We could make it to the ocean on foot! We could--” The sun caught his eye, and his shoulders fell. The great black pit hung where there should have been brilliant light. The fire was fading, and with it their ability to act. “We don’t have time…”

Ernest let out a harsh and sad laugh. “We don’t have time… I’ve wasted a century on undeath, and here as unkindled I worked so hard to just end it… and now. Now that it’s the end… I don’t want… I don’t have time…”

Hawkwood rested his hand on Ernest’s shoulder and gently tugged on him so that they would face each other. “We have a little time. To do little things like this.” He took one of Ernest’s hands in his own and lifted it to his lips. A soft kiss to the knuckles. 

“Yeah… Yeah we do.” 

He leaned into the man who he wanted to call his friend, and together they spent a little of their remaining time in comfort watching the distant sea.

  
  
  
  



	50. Sightless Eyes

There was an intimacy afforded by physical proximity. A closeness in resting side by side with another human in a casual embrace. Ernest found it with his head on Hawkwood’s shoulder as they watched the distant sea and drifting clouds. Wren found it with Irina, holding her hands and leaning against her. They spoke with their dear companions. Soft words and gentle praises. Ernest traced his fingers over Hawkwood’s knuckles. For once Ernest wanted to feel secure without his armor. He knew he would die in it, and whenever he shed it at the shrine it was only for necessary repairs. There was no comfort in that.

But for a little while he could sit nestled into Hawkwood’s side with the man’s arm over his shoulder with nothing but cloth between them. He wanted to feel the air, to feel life, on his skin one last time. He didn’t want to experience his last hours wrapped in steel as a walking weapon. He wanted to be human. He only ever wanted to be human. Hawkwood had understood that. The men rested curled into each other free of their armor. Ernest’s shirt was a coarse yellowed old mess with tears from wear and battle. Hawkwood’s clothes were similarly worn and patched. It was the first time Ernest had seen him without his hood, and he ran his hand through his ragged curls feeling the grease and sweat and heat of life. The strength of Hawkwood’s arm beneath his sleeves. The tone of his shoulders under his hand. The warmth of his body. The scrape of his stubble. The rise and fall of his chest. Simply existing together. Basking in it.

Ernest parted from Hawkwood feeling the comfort of a friend at his back and the weight of a forgotten promise in his pocket. There were two black and glassy ‘eyes’ still with him, weighing his side pouch like stones. Perhaps they were stones. Black Eyes like the orb Oscar had found on Anastacia’s corpse. A way to hunt down the perpetrator of some terrible crime. A victim’s last sights of the guilty. But he had seen Anastacia’s murderer in the Eye she left behind. He had seen Lautrec, bound in gold, in the hateful iris. These eyes held no such depictions. 

Irina and Wren found each other similarly. The nun had grown so bold, so confident and filled with hope that she could hold back the biting dark. Her hands were soft on Wren’s face. Her voice was melodic and sweet. She brushed her fingers over Wren committing her to memory. “You’ll have to return to me, sweet champion. Sweet Wren…” With a bashful chuckle and eager promise, Wren kissed Irina’s knuckles. “It’ll take more than a little fire to keep me away from you.”

Ernest stepped through the flame and turned behind him. The seats of the lords had been filled. The cinders of the slain lords laid in soft piles upon the stone thrones. The Watchers glittered. Remnants of skull and gear shimmered in the dim light. Yhorm’s skull, broken and falling to dust burned like a distant city. Aldrich’s remains had been covered with a tarp. Wren’s doing, no doubt. Ernest knew he could not be reasonable with that monster. And high above them all on the furthest throne lay the heart of fire Orbeck had cut from the lordling. It was a crime, a murder, but it had been done. Ludleth looked down on him, eager and sorrowful. His hollowed flesh burned like the cinders of the dead. There was a pain to him. He was so ready for it to be over. To rekindle the flame and be done with it once and for all. But without a word to him, Ernest crossed the room to the firekeeper, to Anabelle. “Child,” he whispered. “Come with me, will you?”

“Ashen one?” She followed him as he took her hand and led her out of the shrine. She balked when she felt the wind and the dirt beneath her feet, but Ernest pulled her no further. “What worries thee so?” She had her suspicions, though they were vague and unrealized. For long she had felt Ludleth knew things she did not. Things kept from her be they precious or horrific. He had always spoken like a grandfather to her, both in the kindly familial way and in a manner that belied pity. She felt the knight press two round stones into her palm, and in that moment she could see that which had been taken from her.

The world remained dark, but she was flooded with a vision. The dark-- no the  _ Dark  _ was warm. Soft. Gentle. “These are eyes… that which we Firekeepers have been denied… Which have been forbidden...” The Fire had not simply faded but been extinguished. The ashes scattered to the winds. The coals stomped into nothing. Wind blew through the shadowed world. But it was alive. “Ashen One--” She reached for Ernest though he was still holding her hand. “These reveal a world devoid of Flame. A betrayal-- is that thine wish?”

“Yes.” His voice was calm and steady. “How do we bring it about, Anabelle?” His hand on her arm was firm but not constricting. Her hand closed around the eyes, and she tucked them away. “Stay thy path,” she spoke with confidence. “I serve thee, and will do as thou bid'st.” She stood straighter. Her chin held upward. “I tend the flame to the end. And should thine desire be to end the Flame, then I shall tend to that end.”

Ernest leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She smiled softly at the touch, at how fatherly it felt. His whiskers scratched, and for a moment she recalled a life she never lived. “You are ok with this, Anabelle?”

“I am. For in the shadows, I feel warmth. I feel sparks of heat. That which is so much like the Flame. I feel life. I cannot see it, even with these eyes, but I know it to be there. I am called to it, but should thine heart bend… kill me. Strip these eyes from my person--”

“My heart will not bend.”

“Then mayst thou thy peace discover.”

Ernest led her back into the shrine. Ludleth watched them with great sorrow, for he knew what it meant when Ernest took her away. Somewhere, somehow, he had found the eyes. He had willed himself a Lord to save lives, but here was a man who would destroy it all for reasons he could not comprehend. Ludleth watched him, but he dared not confront him. For now he could deny what he suspected to be true. He could fulfil his duty as Lord with the hope that he was wrong, as no matter what the Unkindled’s intentions were, he was a Lord, and he would not abandon his post. 

Ernest walked past the lords’ thrones to the two girls sitting on the steps by the fading bonfire. “Wren.” He stood before them. “Do you remember what I said about Kaathe? And Oscar?” She looked up at him and let Irina’s hands slip from hers. 

“Yeah. Why? Good news?”

“I think so. Make your peace. It’s almost time.” He left and strode across the bridge to Andre. Without a word the smith pulled him into an embrace and kissed his cheek. “Andre, I… I don’t think the fire will keep burning.” The smith looked at him with great concern. “I tried to link it before, remember… And if it goes dark--” 

“Don’t say these things, cousin.”

“Andre listen to me.  _ When  _ it goes dark, I need you to be ready for it. I don’t know uh. How. But you need to know it’s coming. We can’t stop it--”

“There’s always hope--”

“I need you to be ready.” Ernest’s voice cracked. He couldn’t tell Andre of his true intention, but he needed him to know what was to happen. He would betray Andre, but he couldn’t leave him unaware of it. The smith closed his eyes and set his hammer down. “I love you, Andre of Astora. But you can’t depend on me.”

“We do depend on you, Ernest. You and Wren…” The man’s voice rose in pitch as he began to tear up. As the reality of it all began to hit him. His large hand rested on Ernest’s forearm, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at the man. Ernest slowly pulled away. “I’m sorry, Andre. I’m so sorry…”

He peaked over the bridge to see Karla looking up at him. She nodded, and he knew they did not need to speak. Greirat was still nowhere to be seen. He turned when he heard a soft cough. Cornyx. Dear Cornyx.

“Sometimes a forest must burn before new life can grow.” The man spoke seemingly to no one, but Ernest understood. Cornyx was already ahead of him. He paused on that bridge, then stepped down to the man. “It is the nature of the world. The longer you try to prevent such a thing, the greater and more destructive it shall be.” Ernest joined him and sat on his rug surrounded by dead creatures and skinned deer. 

“The Old Lords gave everything to try and prevent the end of Fire. Gwyn threw himself upon the Flame rather than face a world of Dark.” Ernest took Cornyx’s hands in his own. “The Witch of Izalith lost her family to try and recreate the Flame. They birthed the bed of chaos. They maimed their brother, bound much of their family together, fused themselves with horrors… I met Quelana.” He was quiet for a moment. “I met Quelagg. I killed Quelagg. I met her silent sister. I killed her brother. Another sister. And we set the rest of the family free in death.”

“That is quite a claim, Ernest.”

“I learned something from the Fair Lady, and I went to show it to my friend, my dearly beloved. Laurentius, my mentor. But when I shared it with him, I lost him. I have been guarded for fear of losing you, but. You’re old. I’m going to finally die. What harm is there in this?” For the first time, he held his flame in his hand for his friend to see. “My gods--” Cornyx whispered when he saw the flame, or felt it really. “That’s--” The knight’s flame danced across his arm and spread over Cornyx’s hand. “This is… from the very heart of Izalith… How did…”

“I told you. I am very old.” They sat together for a moment, hand in hand. Ernest knew the last pyromancer he’d shared his flame with had died shortly after, and it that was likely Cornyx would too, but this time there would be no relation. He stepped back to admire the confusion and awe on Cornyx’s face, but the time had come, and he was ready to die. 

Wren waited by the fire with Anabelle and Irina. Ernest joined them and took Wren’s hand in his own. 

“Are you ready, my lords?”

  
  



	51. To Ash

Wren knelt side by side with Ernest, each with a hand on the wrought iron sword plunged into the flame. They were silent as Anabelle spoke over them, her calm voice barely reaching the edges of the shrine. Irina stood silent where she had so often sat with Wren.

_ “Noble Lords of Cinder. The fire fades…”  _ The tarp covering Aldrich began to burn. Ludleth collapsed as his flames rose. “ _...and the lords go without thrones. Surrender your fires…”  _ She raised her hands as the weak embers drifted away from the thrones towards her. _ “...to the true heirs.”  _ She clasped them as if she had caught a small bug and feared crushing it. “ _ Let them grant death to the old gods of Lordran, deliverers of the First Flame.”  _

She parted her hands to let the embers fall upon their heads, but there was nothing but ash. The shrine grew dark as the fire before them faded to nothing, and Wren turned to Ernest frightened when the darkness turned to silence. There were no ashes upon the thrones. The Firekeeper did not stand with them. Ernest frowned deeply as he slowly stood, his knees and joints protesting as if they finally felt their age.

“Ernie, you said you’d been to the first flame before. What was that like? What did it look like? Was it so dark? Where did the others go? Where are we?”

“I dunno… We’re probably somehow to the kiln of the first flame, if we actually reach the first flame. This might be a proxy or something. Firelink shrine isn’t the shrine I remembered from so long ago but…” He raised his hand to catch a mote of falling ash like a flake of snow. “There was a great door. We filled a bowl set upon tree roots with the souls of lords, and the door opened to what looked like some sort of horrible warzone. Everything was grey. Stone had been melted and cooled-- frozen like ice in a storm.” They turned to the open door of the shrine behind them. “I uh. I guess we’ll find out.”

Wren hesitated. She thought she would bound into the last of it with the energy of her youth, but she found herself clinging to Ernest like a child clings to their mother. She hovered about him undoubtedly in his space, but he did not shoo her away. He plodded on like an old horse headed home. The doorway was filled with a dull light. It seemed grey at first, but it was the same burning orange of the sky. Simply that orange light turned a cold grey when it hit the dark blue stone and pale ash of the inside of the shrine. 

She could see a grey path covered in ash and grass, and somehow the bleakness of the flora seemed fitting. It seemed normal, and she felt a spike of confidence. But as they approached the threshold, the world around them came into view and struck her with a profound fear.

Cities had crumpled on top of each other. The closer to the shrine, the more jumbled and crushed they were. Foreign buildings made of yellow stone splintered with the wooden buildings she’d come to associate with those of Lothric. The spire of a cathedral sprung cockeyed from the ground, and all about her this world twisted and sheared. The grassy path was the only thing to remain clear, and though it ran along a natural bridge made of stone and dirt. On both sides the earth gave way, and below it more of the chaos of convergent lands. She looked to Ernest who scanned the wreckage in horror. 

“I’ve never… this wasn’t…” He searched desperately to see if he knew any of the buildings, but the longer he looked the more he realized that every bit of architecture, every building, every formation, it was all foreign to him. He knew none of it. Wren reached for his wrist and squeezed. Before them fire still poured into the dark circle above. The Flame still crushed the life of those still living. Denied the death of those no longer.

He swallowed audibly and took her hand in his. For a moment, they simply held each other’s hands with a soft firmness. “Ok kiddo. This is our last act. Our big finale.”

“Yeah… Let’s do this, Ernie.”

They followed the path. Hand in hand. At first it was bare; there was nothing but grass and dirt and ash, but as they reached the crest of it, they began to find swords pressed into the ground. Wren bowed her head recognizing the monuments of Watchers. Ernest looked at the rusted blades wondering if he would recognize any of them. They stopped when they reached the top of the path. Before them was a field of blades and flowers. Each sword, halberd, and spear had been plunged into the ground, and among them sprouted tall white wild flowers. In the center of it all was a weak flame. A flame more meager than even the one they left at the shrine. A figure sat by it silhouetted in the dying light. They seemed to stare into it, slouched forward as if in pain. 

They knew that neither of them recognized the figure, but still Ernest seemed transfixed by it. He ran for it like a child running to their dog, and Wren ran after him. The figure, hearing their clambering run, rose to their feet. They were monstrously tall. Their armor was blackened and fused with bits and pieces from across the lands. In the same moment, they tore the coiled sword from the ash and moved to meet the pair.

Ernest did not raise his shield in time to protect himself from the figure’s now flaming blade, but Wren was with him. As the figure swung, Wren leaped and cut at their arm, knocking them off course and hitting Ernest’s shoulder instead. The man quickly regained his composure and slammed into the being with all of his mass. They stumbled together, but the figure grabbed Ernest and flung him to the side. Wren continued on the offensive with her straight sword, the one that felt warm and loved. She darted and peppered them with light taps as she sought a weak point in the armor or their focus.

For a moment, the figure faltered. Ernest raised his sword to land a blow on the back of their knees, but the figure leaped away like a dancer. They cut their sword down, and the flaming blade took the shape of a scimitar. In their free hand, the flame pooled, and the two unkindled split apart. Whatever this figure was, they had fantastic control of the Flame. That much was certain. For they could form the Flame not only into a sword, but to summon it for pyromancy. They hurled a great ball of fire where Ernest and Wren had been moments before, and when they missed, they faltered again. Seemingly frustrated, they tossed the sword above them and caught it by the coiled blade. 

Without a sound, they raised their weapon and let loose a powerful stream of magic. It was far more devastating than that of the two knights’ sorcerer friends’. Wren ran, for the stream of magic tore through the swords left behind. It carved through the earth. It would destroy her like half woven silk. But the being did not simply focus on her. They turned to Ernest who so intently approached them. They were over confident, as before they could let out another blast, Ernest had tackled them. He scrambled to his feet, ready for whatever magic they summoned next. Wren came down from behind them, driving her blade down only for it to deflect off of their armor. 

They whipped around, and for a moment they reached for her sword only to stop. Frozen. “ _ Solaire! _ ” Ernest’s heart broke. The figure lunged towards Wren, the coiled sword once more functioning as a simple straight sword. Sunlight and fire existed side by side for the briefest of moments before Ernest drove his own great blade through the back of the figure. 

He shook as the figure collapsed. They were not dead, but Ernest knew his friend was in there. He plunged his sword in further impaling the figure into the dirt, but only flame came from the wound. It curled about Ernest’s sword, burning his hands. Wren scrambled away, but the figure was not yet done. They lifted their coiled sword, still on their hands and knees, and plunged it into the earth. A wave of fire shot from it as the Figure stood and seemed to explode. Ernest fell backwards, burned and wounded. His head reeled both from the pain and the sense of betrayal. He had done this, somehow. Solaire. He had stabbed his dearest friend in the back. Oh gods what had he done?

But it was not Solaire nor an echo of Solaire who now stood before Wren with a flaming greatsword. It was a Lord, a  _ true  _ Lord. The Lord of Sunlight and the Lord of Cinders. Not an heir of fire. Not any one fool who had tossed themselves upon the flame. Gwyn darted for her in the body of the figure and smacked her aside with a rage. She spun in the air and tumbled across the ground. Burns on her shoulder where his blade had hit her. 

She struggled to stand, but she had to. Ernest was down, and it was on her. But it was getting harder for her to see. It was like staring into a light in the dark. This Lord of Cinder came for her, but she could not properly see his movements. She darted into him knowing that his arm was higher than her head, and the closer she was the harder it would be for him to hit her with his blade. She ducked and twisted, her sword held in both hands. Her blade cut into the metal and fire of the lord. Sparks flew from the gash and burned her hair, but her victory was short lived as lightning arced from the lord and struck her.

Wren choked as she fell, but she was not quite yet alone. Ernest charged, jumping over her and raising his shield when Gwyn brought down another blow of sunlight and fire. The flaming sword bounced off of Ernest’s shield. It had deflected Gwyn’s blows in his last life. It would do so again. Wren staggered as Ernest baited him with quick darts of lightning and sunlight. She stayed back, watching the old lord wail on Ernest with increasing frustration. 

It came to her. She understood what was happening. With each blow, the world grew imperceptibly dimmer. The lord soul and Ernest grew brighter and brighter. Her mentor, her companion, her dear friend seemed almost haloed in the light of the dying lord. The lord was bleeding out, and with him, so went the Flame. There were no real weak points on the armor, but there was the gash where Wren had hit. The lord and Ernest moved like dance partners or old sparring companions, but there was a regularity to their actions. She moved silently and calmly as if in a dream to behind the lord. She ducked under one wide swing and watched Ernest struggle. Could they not see that they all wanted the same thing?

It didn’t matter. She raised the sword Ernest had so revered, the sword that was now hers, and it grew hot in her hands. She plunged it into the wound, and the lord shot upright. With a cry, she shoved it further, and the lord dropped his sword, the flame in it weakly dancing. They fell upon the fallen blade, burned brilliantly for a mere moment, then turned to soft ash.

Ernest fell to his knees. He tossed his helmet and began to sob. Wren reached to touch him, but he raised his hand to stay hers. “Get Anabelle. Get the firekeeper. We. We need to.. To…”

“It’s ok Ernie… It’s almost over…”

“It  _ burns  _ Wren. It burns my very core.”

Ernest looked at her, his once hazel eyes glowing like embers. It horrified her, but she said nothing and ran for the shrine.

He first felt very hot. He began to pry off his armor desperate to cool down like a child with a fever. His breaths came in pants, and his hands shook as he tried to reach his flask of ashen estus, the cold liquid that had helped him focus, but he couldn’t find it. He cried in frustration as he simply tried to tear off his armor, but he struggled to reach the belts and his hands shook too fiercely for him to make any progress beyond his helmet.

“ _ Anabelle--” _

_ “I tend to the Flame until its end. Allow me to do so now.” _

Ernest did not hear them approach, but he turned, shaking, when he heard their voices. Wren stood nervously beside him as Anabelle reached down to the coiled sword and the remnants of the flame. The world grew darker as she pulled the flame from its kindling. 

“Oh Ernie…” Wren reached to put a hand on his shoulder, but he waved her off again. He knew what this pain was. This fire that burned him like a fever. That tore through him. He had felt it before. The world continued to grow dark around them, and Wren’s face twisted in horror. The flame in Anabelle’s hand had faded into nothing, but the sky was still dim with the Age of Fire.

“I uh. I told you. No. I told uh. Someone… I heh.” He let out a weak cough, a cough that sputtered with ash. “I linked the flame with Solaire… You met him, Wren. In that… guardian…” His body burned and shriveled. Wren watched as he grew hollow, his lips tightening and pulling back. His eyes grow distant then fogged. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want… you to… burn…” His voice grew thinner, but he still managed to laugh.

His fever faded into a sharp chill. His shaking became shivers, but he was no longer present enough to register touch. The flame within him was so dim that even should another try to warm him, it could kindle nothing. He was no longer there when his fire gave out. He felt no pain when he fell to ash. It was simply oblivion. A simple death.

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows the undead Ernest of Berenike who existed during the first cycle of undeath in his journey through the final cycle of undeath. 
> 
> Wren of Mirrah belongs to user [Aster_Writes_Here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aster_Writes_Here).
> 
> See Table of Contents for chapters by character.


End file.
